


Perthro

by HerAnimalHeart



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Emotional Baggage, Eventual Romance, F/M, Fate & Destiny, Hurt No Comfort, Infant Death, Miscarriage, Physical Abuse, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Relationships, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-06
Updated: 2019-06-04
Packaged: 2019-06-22 19:48:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 34,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15589398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerAnimalHeart/pseuds/HerAnimalHeart
Summary: "The beginning and end are set. What’s in between is yours. Nothing is in vain, all is remembered."When King Ragnar returns from his ten year self exile, Earl Þorgier sets sail to Kattegat to forge an alliance that will bring riches and fame. The Earl's advisers hope to marry off his beautiful daughter to a son of Ragnar, but fate has other plans. In tow is Þorgier's ward, Saga. Saga is an orphan: unloved, unnoticed, and plagued by darkness... and that darkness is enticing. Will two lonesome hearts be bound by devotion or destruction?Note: This fic is inspired by Ivar's on-screen temperament and the realistic conclusions I chose to draw from it. It chronicles what is sometimes a physically, emotionally and sexually abusive relationship between two emotionally immature individuals. Reader Discretion is advised.





	1. Prologue I - The Midwife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The screams of childbirth were constant through the night. 

These were terrifying yet happy sounds. They signified a mother and child's mutual struggle to live and forged the beginnings of a bond whose ties could never be severed. Earl Þorgeir held his young wife close to his chest, her arms wrapped around his neck, desperate for support. Her sea blue eyes were puffy and dark circles had formed beneath them. Her body tensed and melted against him in seemingly unending waves of immense pain and temporary relief. Her nails dug into the flesh of his shoulders without restraint. The Earl was unbothered. Freeing a babe from the womb was difficult work. 

The midwife had called upon Frigg and all her cohorts until her throat ached, but the baby refused to push past the crown. Her expert hands massaged and positioned the woman's body to no avail. She walked the mother in wide circles, but the movement only brought more blood. She bathed the mother in a steaming tub of salt and herbs, dulling the pain so that the naive young woman would find the strength to push and still the child refused to budge. Evening had stretched into dawn and a heavy sheet of dread hung over the bed chamber. 

"Drastic measures, Lady Solvieg." The midwife, having exhausted her options, dropped a tincture beneath the young mother's tongue to stimulate her exhausted muscles. If she could not birth the child on her own, the Gods would have no choice but to expel it. All they could do then was pray for mercy. The extract was potent.

Suddenly, a painful shriek ripped itself from Solveig's lungs, followed by a long, breath-hitching silence. It was the silence that her husband had grown to fear. He had learned on the battlefield that silence was often a precursor to great tragedy. Chaos and noise meant a fighting chance at something. The eager couple had already lost two sons to the will of the Gods, but neither had stayed in the womb so long. The first had run down her legs within only a few weeks of sowing, a fate which the seer had blamed on the would-be mother's affection for red gowns. In the following months, Solvieg commissioned several garments in calming shades of blue. Apparently, the God's had a distaste not for color, but vanity. Her second child came three months early with a horrible deformation of the mouth and nose. He never took a breath.

This child had been bred on a full moon and both parents had worn neutral, earthen shades during his gestation. Three young goats were bled to the Vanir on his behalf, another three to the Aesir, and three more to Frigg herself. Solvieg did not experience morning sickness nor did she feel much irritation or pain. It would appear their union had finally been blessed - until labor began.

Solvieg tore away from her husband's comforting grasp, soaked in sweat and blood, pale hands outstretched toward the midwife. The midwife's fingers were busy probing into the infant's mouth, rubbing gently at his chest, even pinching at his delicate cheeks. Þorgeir's nails sunk painfully into his young wife's shoulders. The child was laid over his mother's swollen breast, but Þorgeir could not bring himself to look. The silence continued.

"He is big, and handsome..." The midwife spoke, her voice soft and pitying. "...but he is with Hel, now."

\--------

Þorgeir sat upon his throne, eyes straining to focus on his company in the weak candlelight. His hand came to rest over his wife's. It was cold. After failing so many times to produce an heir, his Solvieg had submitted to her presumed fate and allowed her joy to waste away. His once beautiful bride was little more than a sallow husk, her heart and body ravaged by grief. Although she had healed physically from the birth, the young woman still rebuked all of her husband's advances. A terrible grimace marred her features and she complained of all matters of mysterious pains. Even his kisses were met with rigid tears. All but catatonic, Solvieg kept her eyes fixed on the darkness.

"She has always been fragile, and we fear that she will never be strong enough to carry children. Is there anything that can be done?" Þorgeir's voice quaked beneath the weight of his burdens. He was deep in mourning. He was a man of great ambition, an Earl with a prosperous trading port and a thriving people, but none of it mattered when his home wreaked of death. He found it almost impossible to gaze upon his wife, so he focused on the medicine woman instead. 

"With the favor of the Gods, all things are possible." The healer crooned, pale blue eyes flickering over Solvieg's features with frantic intensity. She had been mixing a blend of small black seeds and prickly green stems in her mortar but not once had her eyes left Solvieg's. The concoction smelled bitter. Þorgeir shifted uneasily in his chair. 

He had exhausted all efforts of treatment within his Earldom. When the mysterious woman arrived at his door proclaiming herself Gudrid, idolater of Frigg, he felt compelled to let her in. He wanted his wife to be well, he wanted children, and he was willing to try anything that might win the maternal Goddesses favor and unbind Solvieg's stubborn womb. Whether it was due to grief, exhaustion or witchcraft he was not yet certain, but he found himself both intrigued and put off by this stranger. There was a dark, otherworldly quality to this Gudrid. She could have been Hel in disguise, come to intensify his misery for reasons he would never understand. Their fates were written. Þorgeir was suddenly pulled from his ruminations when he felt the healer's long, slender fingers dance over his own. He instinctively tightened his grip on his wife's hand, eyes blown wide with confusion. 

"Release her." And he did, though reluctantly. A flicker of a smile tugged at Gudrid's lips as she rose to her feet and planted herself firmly between the Earl and his wife. She scooped a generous portion of the paste from the rock bowl and pushed it unceremoniously between Solvieg's lips. The mixture was thick with white, milky slime and it's astringency burned Solvieg's tongue. She yelped in response, pulling away, even reaching out to her husband in a display of vulnerable affection he hadn't witnessed in weeks. Yet, he found himself stuck firmly in place, eyes flickering between the healer and his wife. 

"Swallow." Gudrid grunted, voice husky and sweet. Tears gathered in Solvieg's eyes as she forced the thick paste down. It was bitter and warmed her stomach like strong ale. She was then made to drink a ram's horn of hot wine, which she was grateful for. In the moments that followed, her cheeks flushed and a delightful buzz replaced the emptiness that had been permeating her head. Her fingers un-clenched and smoothed themselves over the marbled wood of her throne. It was as if all of the sorrow she had ever known had suddenly left her. A soft smile lit up her face and her eyes closed. The expression left over was one of pure bliss. Þorgeir felt a wave of relief rushing against his chest. A huge grin overtook his face, crinkling the corners of his eyes. 

"She smiles... I haven't seen her smile since... is she well?" He stammered, smoothing over his tunic as he rose to his feet. He was amazed by this simple yet powerful medicine. 

"For now. It would be wise for her to take this paste every night - you see how it relives her of her pains? Let her sleep. Soon, she will bare you many strong children." The healer stated plainly, gathering her items together in a simple linen satchel. Save for her foggy, far-away stare, Solvieg seemed as carefree as she had on their wedding day. Seeing her like this stripped the weight of sorrow from his chest and he let out an unexpected and hearty laugh. 

"My love, you are glowing! This medicine... I imagine it brings you much success." Þorgeir mused, taking his young wife by the arm as he split his attention between her and the healer. She rose from her seat as if weightless and drifted lazily into his arms. Gudrid gave a gentle nod, her eyes boring into Þorgeir with the same intensity they once had for Solvieg. 

"The Gods have cursed your wife with a weak nature. Sad women are often made worse by their fruitlessness. A woman's heart should be like blood pudding - warm and rich, to sustain the growing child inside her. My medicine... it makes the heart rich." Gudrid remarked. Þorgeir tucked several stray wisps of hair behind his wife's ear and nodded in return. Solvieg, who for weeks had refused to share his bed, was now relaxed and mewling in his arms.

"But I must warn you, Earl, do not take her so hastily. It will take time to make her well and strong. I can return nightly to administer treatment and when she is ready..." Gudrid did not need to complete her thought. The Earl placed one hand upon his wife's head and used the other to wave over a thrall who had been re-stocking the hearth fire.

"Give the healer Gudrid whatever she desires. You will make up a palette for her immediately. I want her as our personal midwife... if you would be so kind as to stay and look after my Solvieg?" Þorgeir had already begun leading his wife to their bedchamber. His posture had gone rigid with her advice but his expression was soft with gratitude.

The healer bowed her head, hands clasped calmly over her satchel.

"I can think of no greater honor, your Earlship."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone! Thank you for taking the time to read and welcome to my first Vikings Fanfiction. This is a slow-burn fic about witchcraft, destiny, family, duty and ultimately, love... or something close to it. Chapters will occasionally alternate between past exposition (titled Prologue) and modern day with occasional time skips as we progress through seasons 4 and 5. There will be slight overarching plot divergence, but that does not mean everyone will escape their fate. 
> 
> My goal is to update at least once weekly, but I will do so more frequently as inspiration inspires - so if you're interested in reading along, please bookmark and enjoy. 
> 
> ♥ HAH


	2. Raidho

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Earl Þorgeir's ship arrives in Kattegat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The rune Raidho, literally translated as "ride" or "wagon", governs travel, decision-making and access to our inner compass, aka following one's heart.
> 
> 2\. Þ - A letter in the old Scandinavian Alphabet. The letter originated from the rune ᚦ in the Elder Fuþark. The ancient pronunciation is voiceless like the T in Torn. The modern pronunciation is similar to "th" as in Thorn.

A white mist swirled on the horizon, and just beneath it's thick visage, the bustling docks of Kattegat slowly crept into view. A pungent bouquet of bonfire, livestock and fish overpowered the otherwise pleasant scent of the open ocean. The navigator's call brought the twelve or so oarsmen to a grateful standstill. The boat and it's passengers groaned with relief as the current relieved them of their burden and pulled them gently towards the shore. It should have been a short journey down the Otra river from Venessla, but the weather had soured shortly after their departure and the crew had fought against the tide through the night. What should have been a day of rowing had stretched early into the following evening.

"It's a bad omen." Þorgeir murmured, hands writhing together beneath his dark woolen cloak. 

Earl Þorgeir had become an anxious man. While neighboring ports grew and flourished, Venessla seemed stuck in time. Taking all of this into account, one quickly came to the conclusion that the name Þorgeir carried very little weight in Norway. That was precisely why the woe begotten Earl was so eager to make a good impression when word of the renowned King Ragnar's return reached his hall. This return was an opportunity for lucrative raids, trade deals and familial alliances. 

"They were expecting us yesterday evening. This venture has been doomed from the start." Þorgeir groaned, rubbing his hand against his bearded cheek in a well practiced gesture of worry. His other hand gripped the mast so fiercely that it's knuckles had gone white. 

"Arriving a day late and in such a foul state - Þorhild's dress is soaked through, and furthermore -" 

"-Papa, don't worry so much or you'll give us bad luck." Chastised Þorhild, the Earl's only daughter. She had been leaning over the side of the longboat, stretching herself towards the shore with such intensity that the tip of her golden braid dragged over the surface of the water. Earl Þorgeir softened in response. She looked every bit a future queen in her form fitting blue gown with it's accents of gold and green. Lithe, full-breasted and fair of hair and face like her mother, this creature hand sculpted by the Gods was his only comfort in a dark and unforgiving world. The Earl breathed steadily through his nose and returned to his silent rumination.

The call of horns and a cacophony of voices had alerted the King's hall to the boat's arrival and a small crowd had already begun to gather on the shore. The longboat stuttered along the pebbled shoreline before coming to a sudden halt against the pier, jostling it's passengers about briefly. Calls of welcome and murmurs of conversation only aggravated the Earl's anxiety. He hated meeting people. He left little to no impression. Fortunately for the Earl, the success of this trip did not rely solely upon his shoulders. His foremost adviser Knut insisted on speaking on his behalf, and his lovely daughter, steadfast in her duties, would waste no time in charming her hosts

"Not so eager, my treasure." Þorgeir mumbled beneath his breath, but it was no use. Þorhild was already reaching her milk-white hand towards the pier where countless men extended their's in return. Rather suddenly, the sea of men gave way so that a large, heavily tattooed man could approach the boat. Þorhild's dark blue eyes gleamed as the massive palm of King Ragnar himself extended to receive her delicate hand. She descended in a graceful flurry of blue fabric and bronze adornments, giving her best curtsy as the King brought his lips to her knuckles in a shamelessly charming gesture. His men erupted into brash woops and whistles.

The Earl felt his stomach drop at the sight of the grizzled King. Rumor would suggest that the old King had lost favor with his people in the years he had been wandering, but it seemed his warriors had still found reason to rally around him. He would take them back to the shores of England by the Spring and, should this meeting be fortuitous, Venessla's ships would sail right beside him.

Next to descend was Knut, who gave his Earl a swift clap on the back as he passed. King Ragnar took the adviser's hand in his own. Moments later, the king's eyes were upon the Earl and the horrible anxiety returned. He was not worried about the discourse to be had or the impression Þorhild would make upon Ragnar - or more importantly, his sons. It was the dead weight at the back of the boat which was currently hiding it's pale face behind an unfashionably bulky fur that made his stomach swirl with dread. 

"Saga, come." He called, affording his ward none of the warmth he spared for his daughter. Saga's slight frame quaked from beneath her protective covering. Crowds frightened her. Individuals frightened her, too, but not nearly as much as crowds. Already she could feel the stinging of dozens of eyes upon her. Surely, if the Earl's daughter was so lovely, her travelling companion must be a sight to behold. The furs slid from her crown and down her shoulders, bunching childishly around her torso, revealing a shoulder-length mane of dark brown hair and eyes like ice. Her face, though pleasant, was marred by a perpetually cold expression and dusted with freckles. Should anyone care to glance lower, they would be disappointed by her slight curves and the unflattering shape of her conservative gray dress with it's leather apron and iron fasteners. She felt an odd mixture of shame and relief when the crowd's eager grins faded into polite smiles, their hungry eyes preferring Þorhild's classic Scandinavian beauty over her plainness. This was a situation she had grown used to. After all, she wasn't exactly a free woman.

Saga took her time in neatly folding the fur in the hopes of calming her nerves, patting it gently as one might a loyal dog. The Earl let out an impatient huff which pulled her feet from their locked position and sent her scurrying obediently forward. She followed Þorgeir off the boat without waiting for assistance. She would receive quite a tongue lashing for that in the hours to come. As a lady in waiting, she had been lectured many times on the importance of body language when in the presence of her esteemed cousin. 

Earl Þorgeir took a deep breath, stepping across the pier with shaking, sea-weary legs. Knut's expression pulled into a tight-lipped grimace at the sight. A day and a half at sea and the Earl was already overwhelmed. He prayed the King wouldn't notice the Earl's doe-like disposition. An ally who could be so easily perceived as weak would find it difficult to gain leverage in most diplomatic situations. Fortunately, the men on the dock seemed in good spirits. They joined hands with their guests and traded names quite effortlessly. 

"King Ragnar," The adviser began, "Earl Þorgier Älgfjall. His late father, Morten the Bold, often voiced his support of your ambitions and intended to accompany you to Frankia before his untimely demise." His hand reached out, taking the Earl by the elbow and guiding him towards the King.

"Earl Älgfjall, thank you for coming. I am sorry to hear of the passing of your father." Ragnar replied, seemingly unfazed by Knut's poorly disguised attempts at flattery. The Earl beamed, taking both of Ragnar's hands into his own in a show of good faith.

"Think nothing of it - and please, call me Þorgeir. We are all friends here, after all." The Earl replied.

"My King - it would appear you have already met Lady Þorhild, the Earl's beautiful daughter." Knut emphasized the word lady, and Saga smiled to keep herself from scowling. Did he have to make his intentions so obvious? Þorhild, on the other hand, was simply glowing at the attention. 

"Lady Þorhild, I'm sure my sons will be delighted." Ragnar quipped, offering a satirical bow in the young maid's direction. The young woman giggled into her open palm. Ragnar's men laughed heartily at that. Knut bristled, but forced a barking laugh just the same. Þorgeir settled for silence. Saga took the opportunity to busy herself with removing Þorhild's woolen cloak, a stunning black dyed fabric that connected at the neck with an ornate brass broach. She ran her fingers over the fabric, admiring it's quality. The dresses Þorgier had made for her were neutral and plain, but Þorhild was always made up like a noble. Saga felt embarrassed during feasts and expeditions. She was a lady in waiting dressed like a thrall and because of this, people always assumed she was the latter. 

Ragnar's free hand came to rest on his hip as he surveyed the mousy girl at Þorhild's side. He offered her a sympathetic smile. His brows tweaked downward in a gesture that could only convey pity, and a pang of humiliation rang through her. Saga's cheeks burned.

"I have to apologize for our late arrival. There was an awful storm upstream, and the men weren't prepared to -" The Earl stammered, quickly forgetting his rehearsed charm.

"It's nothing. My men will take you to camp. We can discuss your arduous journey this evening over food and drink. We've been waiting all day to feast, haven't we?" Ragnar bellowed, and the eager voices of his men called out in return. The Earl's boat was hurriedly ported and the crowd dissipated as quickly as it had gathered. The crew was starved and they quickly abandoned Þorgeir and his kin for the siren's call of the longhouse. Knut nodded his approval at the baffled Earl and the pair hurried after Ragnar. No sooner were Ragnar's men out of earshot did Þorhild let out a rather irritated sigh.

"There were no princes here to greet me." Þorhild smoothed her hands over her plaited hair, delicately stepping to her maid's side and rolling her eyes. Saga stifled a smile and felt some of the tension leave her. Although she and Þorhild were perfect opposites, they were the same age and understood one another like only young women of sixteen could. They both found this situation quite ridiculous but for different reasons. Þorhild was certain she could seduce any prince. The pageantry was nothing more than a boring chore. Saga, on the other hand, found this display ludicrous. If Lady Þorhild was destined to marry a prince, then it would be so. There was no reason for all of the rehearsal and discussion. 

"Perhaps I spoke too soon..." Þorhild breathed, clasping her hands over her chest in an obvious display of femininity. Saga's brows quirked in confusion as she followed her lady's line of sight. Sure enough, three young men were making their way from the forest's edge to the longhouse, laughing and jostling one another as they went. Even from a moderate distance it was easy to see they were Ragnar's sons. They all had Ragnar in them, whether it be the sarcastic tilt of their smile or the brilliant blue of their eyes. Between them they hoisted a wooden sling where a fourth boy reclined casually. He had dark hair and his expression was positively unpleasant. Had he been injured? If so, his escorts were being awfully lighthearted about it. 

One of the young men, hair done up in thin braids, seemed to notice the unfamiliar banner in the port and peered at the girls with curious eyes. Þorhild beamed up at him and was rewarded with a comical grin. He gestured to his companions and soon all four of them had turned their attention to the dock. Saga tucked her chin, hiding her freckled face beneath a sheet of hair. Fortunately for her, the young men continued toward the longhouse. Unfortunately, she would be escorting Lady Þorhild to the hall before nightfall.

"I'm sure you'll be up to your ears in ravenous suitors before the evening is out." Saga hummed, pulling her arms around herself in a comforting gesture.


	3. Fehu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Evening has come and the feast has begun.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The rune Fehu, literally translated as "cattle", governs sustenance, circulation of power and first impressions. It is symbolic of new beginnings and social success, as well as delegating your power to others. 
> 
> 2\. Aslaug & Ragnar - As you can tell from this chapter, I have decided to portray their relationship somewhat warmer than it was in season 4. 
> 
> 3\. Margrethe will not appear in this fic.

Saga's fingers worked tirelessly upon Þorhild's blanket of hair, dipping over and under, occasionally pausing to braid in a metal charm or bead. She pulled and tucked at the golden strands, slowly creating a pattern that resembled a fishing net. It was intricate, time consuming work but Saga was a perfectionist. She enjoyed the details. Þorhild sat patiently, prattling on about her expectations for the evening. Saga found it tiresome but nodded and hummed whenever she noticed a break in her cousin's speech. It wasn't until she secured Þorhild's braid with a brown leather string that Saga allowed herself a deep, cleansing breath. Þorhild examined the work and broke into a warm smile.

"Oh, it's lovely. How do I look?" She chirped, rising suddenly from her wooden stool and comically hoisting her breasts for effect. Saga tweaked one brow, but refused to grin.

"Perky." She replied curtly, and Þorhild gave her a playful slap. Saga laughed quietly to herself, absently threading her fingers through her blunt hair. Þorgeir had cut it himself on her fifth birthday, only a few weeks after he had carted her to Venessla from her father's Earldom in central Denmark. She could still hear the odd ripping sound of his knife slicing through her braid. Despite the gentleness of his hands, she took one look at the thick rope of hair at her feet and cried hot, heavy tears. He had done it in silence, but she thought she remembered Þorhild giggling from the doorway in fascination. Hair hadn't been allowed to grow past her shoulders since then. It was plain and wavy and she had fixed it with only a few sprigs of baby's breath from the surrounding field. The tiny buds hugged around her ears like a fairy's crown, but it was nothing compared to Þorhild's extravagant braid. So long as Þorhild was the epitome of beauty, Saga could sneak a few ornaments into her own wardrobe without Þorgeir taking notice. Most women wanted to feel pretty from time to time, especially young girls just grasping at womanhood. Saga was no exception.

The sound of crickets alerted them to the encroaching dusk. An orange sun was setting just beyond the mountains and the view from the open slat of their tent was breathtaking. The city was still, the merchants and freemen having retired from their work but someone was busy lighting lanterns in the town center and faint music could be heard if one listened carefully enough. 'What a charming place...Venessla seems so cold in comparison.' Saga thought, but the thought was buried as quickly as it came. Earl Þorgeir was trodding his way up the path, his tent being only several steps from their own. He paused at the tent's opening and coughed into his hand, eyes barely flicking over Saga.

"Are you finished? We're expected by sundown." Pushing the flap of the tent aside, Þorgeir took a good look at Saga's handiwork. This would be their first impression upon the King and his family and he expected nothing short of perfection. Þorhild straightened, fingers drumming impatiently over her voluminous braid. She had changed into a gown of deep green and cream and her jewelry was chunky, elaborately painted wood on thin leather. He gave Þorhild an approving smile, stepping toward her with both hands outstretched and placing each one tentatively against her elbows. 

"You look every bit a princess, my dear." Þorhild beamed, but her smirk betrayed her smugness. Of course she did, and in her mind she would undoubtedly be a princess by the Spring. She simply had to choose her man. Þorgeir finally let his eyes roam over his ward, and Saga's breath hitched in her throat. She had chosen a simple, form-fitting gown made from a thin, beige material. It's bell sleeves were more innocent than provocative and the neck rested conservatively just below her collar bones. She looked every bit a farmer's daughter, and Þorgeir approved of it's simplicity with little more than a grunt. Saga released her breath, relieved. 

"Well then, shall we?" And with that, the trio made their way to the longhouse, Þorgeir outlining all he had learned about Þorhild's possible suitors in the hours since their arrival. A little path had been walked into the grass during the previous Summer and it allowed Saga to trail behind, admiring the local flora. Lightning bugs glimmered in and out of view, buzzing faintly as their fire grew and receded. She was perfectly content to keep to herself until she noticed the Earl's voice had dropped to a hushed tone. 

"... as for the cripple, be kind, but I'm certain I don't have to remind you not to show too much interest, lest the eldest brothers mistake it for romantic intention." Þorhild visibly recoiled, obviously repulsed by the idea of a crippled man taking interest in her, prince or not. A crippled son? Saga scrunched her brows in thought. Images of the stretcher filled her mind. So, the boy wasn't injured after all. He was broken. Saga wrestled with the thought for a few moments, slightly intrigued. Fortunately for him, he was the son of a famous man. His hardships would always be overshadowed by his name. Furthermore, it was said that all of Ragnar's sons were talented warriors. She struggled to imagine how a man could fight in a battle without the use of his legs. He must have been a very skilled bowman. His brothers even took him along on their excursions and there was something to be said about that. Perhaps he really could fend for himself. Most cripples were diseased or shut-ins. This one was not only royalty, but included in his family's activities and affairs. Torgier would never allow such a thing. How delightfully shameless. 

It was an unfortunately short walk from the campsite into town. The square was alive with warriors, streets pulsing towards the longhouse like veins leading blood to the heart. If she were bolder, she could lose herself in the crowd and avoid the feast altogether. Instead, she pressed herself closer to Þorhild, desperate to disappear. Suddenly, she felt a bit ill. The crowd was much bigger than she had anticipated and just the thought of being cramped inside a muggy mead hall with so many people - how could they possibly fit? She would be surrounded by countless strangers, limited to pouring ale for Þorhild and her suitors, her only safety being the placid mask she had trained herself to hide behind. The smell of burnt meat, ceder and ale hit her nose. The warm scents delighted her counterparts, but all she could think of were strange men knocking against her shoulders and back with every drunken sway. 

Þorgeir was the first to arrive at the door of the King's hall, nodding politely at the guards who then hoisted open the heavy wooden doors. Þorhild shot Saga an excited grin before pattering in behind her father. Saga took a deep breath and lingered just long enough to enjoy a fleeting glimpse of the sunset.

"Here he is - lovely daughter in tow!" Knut's voice boomed over the crowd, causing a sea of eyes to crash over the newly arrived trio. Saga dug her fingers into the edge of her dress. It would be uncouth to hide her face now, so she settled for a painfully tight grip. Of course, nobody was really looking at her. It was the Earl and his daughter that had been the talk of the evening. The Earl's adviser took several long steps across the room, guiding them in the direction of Ragnar's table. The King was standing, surrounded by an ever-changing crowd of warriors. He peered at his guests over a blunted ram's horn, eyes already sparkling from it's contents.

"Earl Þorgeir, welcome -" He paused to wave over a nearby thrall, who quickly offered them three horns. Saga was surprised to receive one. She wasn't normally afforded the right to drink in Þorgeir's court, regardless of the occasion. Would she get in trouble if she accepted the drink? Would she get in trouble if she denied it? She considered protesting before another girl, no older than herself, filled them all to the brim with golden mead. There was no eye contact, but Saga couldn't help but offer the girl an empathetic frown. 

"To our friendship." Ragnar breathed, clinking cups with Þorgeir and taking a long pull without breaking eye contact. Þorgeir emptied his horn, likely from nerves, and eagerly accepted a second helping. Þorhild sipped delicately from her own cup, pausing only to nudge Saga gently. She widened her eyes, silent but encouraging. Saga shifted uncomfortably. The cup felt awkward in her hand, but she lifted it to her lips all the same and was nearly overwhelmed by the taste. It burned and tingled on her tongue. She swallowed the mouthful with some difficulty and fanned at her watering eyes. Þorhild suppressed a laugh.

Saga's vision cleared and her mouth nearly hung open at the sight before her. Ragnar had turned this back to them and lifted the hand of the most elegant woman she had ever seen. Statuesque in her perfection and easily a head taller than her husband, the Queen's sharp-boned beauty was positively bewitching. Her dress was a rich purple and her ivory skin shone against it like the moon. Þorhild melted into a deep curtsy. Unblinking, Saga did the same.

"My wife, Queen Aslaug." Ragnar hummed, and Þorgeir kissed her knuckles graciously. Even he seemed struck by her beauty. Aslaug's hawkish gaze passed over the Earl as she mouthed pleasantries but her attention was fully upon the young girls at his side. She looked at Þorhild as if she were appraising a fine piece of meat, scouring her for the slightest imperfections, all the while wearing a smile that didn't quite reach the corners of her eyes. Everyone in the king's court must have known Þorgeir's intentions. Aslaug seemed pleased with this offering but the hall was loud and hot and Saga had lost the ability to comprehend whatever was being said between them. It seemed as though the two traded niceties for hours but really only a few long seconds had passed. Saga sipped away at her drink, terrified that she might accidentally draw attention to herself. To take her mind off of the affair, she watched passively as thralls surged around the table. The Queen had countless thralls and Saga knew, if a match were to be made with any of Ragnar's sons, she would need to make an impression if she wished to accompany Þorhild in servitude. Otherwise, she would be in Þorgeir's care until... well, until he finally lost his patience with her and she was sent somewhere else. They were family by blood, but Saga doubted the man was above selling her once Þorhild was out of the -

"Saga -" Her name on Þorgeir's impatient tongue cut through her concentration like a knife, and she clasped her cup with both hands. She mumbled an apology, cheeks pink with heat, embarrassment and mead. The Queen was looking at her expectantly. She had been lost in thought, and drink, for the past several minutes. What was she to say? She could feel herself slipping into a mouthful of stutters. Fortunately, Knut answered for her.

"She is the Earl's niece. He was generous enough to take her in after the death of her father some years ago. She now serves lady Þorhild, and very adequately, as it was she who prepared our lady for the feast." Saga breathed deeply to still her trembling heart. Knut had always been kinder than her uncle and was far more clever in conversation. Not only had he saved her from embarrassment a countless time but now he was complementing her in front of the Queen and swiftly directing attention back to Þorhild. She was fortunate to have an ally in moments like these, even if his primary goal was to keep up appearances. 

"First your father, then your brother. It seems the fates have big plans for you, Þorgeir." Ragnar quipped, taking another long sip from his cup. Þorgeir nearly spat out his drink. He shook his head gently, waving his hands as if to say 'no'. The queen gave her husband a sharp look before turning her attention back to Þorhild.

"Ladies, join me, won't you? Men are such terrible conversationalists." Þorgeir had recovered and was now being ushered toward the center of the hall by Ragnar. He shot a stern look over his shoulder, clearly intended for Saga, before the crowd swallowed him. They were heading into a group of warriors where they would surely discuss Ragnar's famous raids and Þorgeir's numerous misfortunes. Saga nearly cracked a smile at the thought of her very serious uncle recounting his unfortunate luck to a group of uninterested, battle hardened men. 

As was expected, Þorhild and Aslaug quickly settled into a charming and artificial dialogue. Saga nursed her mead in silence. Occasionally her cousin would turn to her, smiling, saying nothing more than, "Isn't that right, Saga?" or "Wouldn't you agree, Saga?" Each time she would smile and nod, and each time Aslaug would sigh in appreciation or chuckle demurely. She once attempted to refill her lady's cup and was instantly chastised by the Queen, which was only somewhat embarrassing in her increasingly impaired state. Aslaug had motioned for a thrall who filled their cups several times in the span of an hour. Saga was relieved. She was warm and relaxed and perhaps even a little happy. She was of very little interest to anyone and was resigned to drinking and nodding. Her peace was short-lived, as a boisterous group had entered the hall and was loudly making it's way to the King's table. Aslaug's face lit up and Þorhild grasped her cousin's hand beneath the table. The two locked eyes but only one expression was joyous. 

The Queen's sons had finally arrived.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to everyone who has read and left kudos. It's been very encouraging seeing how many hits this story got on it's first day, so I've decided to post a few more chapters this week to better introduce you all to Saga and to give you a little bit of more time with the characters you're here for.
> 
> If you'd like to leave a comment letting me know what you think so far, please do. 
> 
> ♥ HAH


	4. Hagalaz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the feast winds down, Ivar shows his true nature. Things don't go well for Saga.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The rune Hagalaz, literally translated as "hail" or "hailstone", signifies crisis and radical change. Catastrophe, the uncontrollable and unavoidable unpleasantness follow this rune. 
> 
> 2\. Skål - the Viking equivalent of "cheers!"

Saga receded into herself as three young men piled onto the opposite side of the table and called for the nearest thrall to fill their cups. They greeted their mother between boyish laughter, eyes trained on the heavy jug that was currently flowing over their horns. A fourth son, noticeably quieter than his brothers, took the seat closest to Aslaug. He lifted himself, seemingly from the floor, and swung his bound legs over the bench. He took notice of the young ladies instantly and sat frozen for a moment. Weary of her father's advice and utterly displeased at the prospect of marrying a cripple, Þorhild kept her eyes trained on the oldest of the brothers. The cripple, apparently used to this treatment, didn't seem to mind. His eyes roamed over Þorhild appreciatively. Then, much to her horror, his attention drifted to Saga. Their eyes caught and she could have sworn his face softened just a fraction. For a moment, all that existed was the impossibly deep blue of his irises. 'What beautiful eyes' purred the voice inside her head. Then, as if he'd never laid eyes on her, the cripple took his cup in silence, a cold expression once again darkening his features as he began to drink. Saga did the same, feeling flustered. 

As soon as their cups were filled and their eyes were finally able to wander elsewhere, the brothers fell silent. Ensnared by feminine magic, three pairs of hungry eyes fluttered between the girls. Aslaug smiled at her sons, no stranger to the awkward dance between men and women. She reached a slender hand towards the oldest of the boys and Þorhild's current object of appraisal. 

"Ladies, these are my sons. Ubbe, the eldest -" In that moment, Ubbe perked up immensely, eyes drinking their fill of Þorhild's lovely face. Þorhild smiled and flushed, bowing her head in a girlish greeting. Saga was grateful for the lack of attention but each glance between them left an ache of jealousy in her chest. She tilted her cup back and drowned the unpleasant feeling.

"And here is Hvitserk." Aslaug continued. Saga recognized him as the braided boy who first noticed them on the pier. His mouth was spread into an equally large, equally silly grin as the one he had worn that afternoon and his eyes darted generously between the two of them. He tipped his cup before taking a draining swig. Something about his character had a calming effect. It was easy to tell he didn't take things quite as seriously as everyone else. 

"Sigurd - Sigurd, perhaps you could entertain us all with a song later? Sigurd plays the oud." The Queen beamed. She clearly enjoyed showing her sons off. Sigurd gave an annoyed grunt and nodded. The smile never left his lips. He, too, seemed instantly smitten with Þorhild. 

" - And, my youngest, Ivar." She smoothed her hand over the back of Ivar's head as if fixing his hair, and though he flinched at the contact, he leaned closer to his mother and flashed her an innocent yet entirely false smile. Saga felt her stomach drop. His expression changed on a whim and her first thought was that this was an incredibly deceptive ability. It wasn't in her nature to think the best of people, nor was she very trusting. Despite her weariness towards this Ivar, Saga couldn't help but steal glances at him over her cup. He was so unlike his brothers. They had so much of Ragnar in them, from their dirty blonde hair to the arrogant charm that warmed their features. Ivar, on the other hand, was every bit as beautiful and cold as his mother. It was unnerving.

His brother Sigurd must have shared this opinion, as he made quite a show of mocking his brother's smile while his back was still turned. Aslaug caught the impression and tutted softly.

"None of that. Boys, this is the Earl's daughter, Lady Þorhild of Vesnella. Be on your best behavior, won't you?" Sigurd returned dejectedly to his mead, hiding his expression behind his cup. Þorhild nodded politely to each boy and finally released Saga's hand. It was a shame, as Saga didn't realize how much she had appreciated that small show of support until it was gone. 

"Þorhild - are you named after your father? You must be very strong willed." Ubbe tested the name on his tongue and the young woman smiled gently in response. Hvitserk, who was already on his second cup, motioned rather uncouthly to Saga. 

"Who is this, then?" He prodded, resting his chin against his hand before taking another oblivion seeking sip. Þorhild glanced at her cousin and introduced her without hesitation. Saga was quite a clam in moments like this and the sooner they got her name out of the way, the sooner the boys would return their attention to her.

"This is my cousin, Saga - my handmaiden, really, but she is my uncles daughter." Þorhild replied, glancing evenly between the group. Saga bowed her head politely. Ivar's brows twitched some at the words "handmaiden". 

"So, is she your family, or your slave?" Ivar was picking idly at his nails with a small hunting dagger, utterly disinterested in the conversation. Saga was rendered speechless before she even had a chance to properly introduce herself. What a rude thing to ask, especially for a prince. He seemed so aloof. So unaffected.

"Ivar." Warned Sigurd.

"Saga, hm? Does she speak?" Hvitserk attempted to lighten the mood, drawing a chuckle from Sigurd. Saga groaned internally, sipping away at her drink in response. She longed for the same ease. She was quickly finding things to appreciate about him. Or perhaps his interest made him the ideal centerpiece for her anxiety induced observation. 

Cups were filled several more times and before long, Ubbe seemed to be entirely under Þorhild's spell. He had even plucked up the courage to move to her side of the table and sat firmly between the lady and her cousin. Or, handmaiden. Whichever Þorhild preferred. Saga tapped away at her cup. She had rapidly begun to feel dizzy and hot and, while Ubbe was chatting away with her sister and Aslaug was making the rounds, the remaining three brothers were busy conversing about the upcoming raid on England. Sigurd plucked away at his oud between points, eyes passing back and forth from Hvitserk to Ivar and occasionally creeping over Þorhild and Ubbe. 'I wonder if he's jealous of his brother' Saga mused to herself, all the while unaware that a drunken smile was sneaking it's way over her lips. She looked much more appealing with a smile, and it didn't go unnoticed.

"Your cup is empty." Hvitserk stated flatly, tapping at her cup with his own. He was right. She had been staring blankly into an empty horn for several minutes, stewing in her drunkenness. The ale seemed to have given her a little courage, as she tapped her cup against his in response.

"And so is yours." She managed, voice soft from lack of use. The brothers must not have expected a response as all three of them were now eyeing her curiously. Was her voice really so unusual? If she was blushing, she couldn't tell. Her face was already burning hot from the amount of alcohol she had consumed. 

"See, I told you she wasn't dumb." Ivar said smugly, pointing an accusatory finger in her direction. She found herself offering him a genuine smile. Had he been curious about her, too? He did not smile back, but he did not look away either. Despite his aggressive attitude, he wasn't entirely self absorbed. Hvitserk's grin returned, even wider than before, and he waved over a girl to fill their cups. She traded glances with the brothers, their interest returned now that she was actually speaking to them.

"To our lovely company." Hvitserk clinked his cup against Saga's. Sigurd joined in and the three of them drank. Ivar downed his cup, glaring wearily at the trio. He was so quiet and always wearing such a nasty expression. Saga surveyed him for a moment, her face crinkling with realization. Is that what she looked like? Suddenly, she burst into a quiet fit of laughter. This was so unusual for her that even Þorhild, who had been enthralled with Ubbe for the past hour, glanced over his shoulder to give her cousin a strange smile. 

"Saga, is that fun I hear?" Þorhild joked, which only worsened Saga's condition. Þorhild smiled knowingly. The mead had done it's duty. Saga was free from her discomfort, if only for a moment. This would make a much better impression on their company. She pulled herself together long enough to skål again, this time with her cousin and Ubbe included. Surrounded by smiling faces, save for one hilariously surly one, Saga felt at ease. How long had it been since she had felt so light? She hardly even winced when Hvitserk stood up from the table and took a giant step over it to settle down by her side. Sigurd propped himself up, strumming away at his instrument. Guests surged around them in good spirits, shouting and laughing and drinking deeply. Food began arriving on massive wooden slabs. Even Ivar seemed more at ease when blackened fowl and root vegetables were placed just within his reach. 

Now that both women were receptive to their attention, the mood was entirely pleasant. Sigurd and Hvitserk took turns telling stories between bites of meat and swigs of mead, boasting about their training abilities and taking swipes at one another in an attempt to appear assertive. Everyone seemed to be having a very good time. Save for Ivar, of course. Ivar reveled in his bored silence, a look of irritation plastered upon his face. His brothers seemed none the wiser, happier in the company of a lady than they had been with their indignant little brother. The discussion of raiding had dissolved into nothing more than a contest between cocks. When Ivar did look up from his cup, it was to give his brothers a salty glare. 

"So, which one of you will lie with her tonight? My money is on Hvitserk." Ivar swirled the liquid in his cup placidly, glancing up to study Saga's face. 

"Don't mind Ivar, he knows nothing about women and often compensates by being inappropriate." Sigurd abruptly hissed, glaring daggers at his little brother.

A terribly awkward silence followed. Saga noticed long ago that men often competed in the company of women, even ones that weren't so pretty. This was equally flattering and concerning. No matter how much fun she allowed herself to have, the little voice in the back of her head had been whispering all night that no man really cared for her friendship. Most likely they were only entertaining her because Þorhild had so clearly preferred their brother. If they did have any interest in her, surely it was only for one thing. Ale made men hungry for all sorts of things. She was silent for a time, drinking Ivar's comment away until her head was spinning.

"Are you alright?" Hvitserk was waving his hand in front of her eyes, which had become dreamy with drink. Now that she had been even the slightest bit talkative, any silence was all the more apparent. Saga dug her hands into the table, steadying herself. The last thing she wanted was to appear less than accommodating for her hosts, for Þorhild's sake. For her own sake.

"I'm just... I don't normally drink, and... It's very hot in here, isn't it?" She huffed, lifting herself from the table. That proved to be a mistake. The spinning in her head seemed to triple in speed and she quickly plopped herself back down on the sheepskin laden bench. Hvitserk chuckled and reached out to steady her. The moment his hand touched her arm, she ripped herself from his grasp with such ferocity that she nearly fell into Ubbe. Ivar's face lit up. The eldest brother hunched forward some, attention lost in her fairer cousin. Hvitserk threw his hands up, his expression an odd mixture of apologetic and amused. 

"Did you see that, Hvitserk? You nearly pulled her out of her skin." Ivar's voice was biting, almost cruel.

"You must have drank a bit too quickly. It's alright. I can take you outside for some air." Hvitserk soothed. Saga threw her hands around herself, keeping the distance between them. The idea of a man's hands on her was terrifying and, in her current state, a charming man's touch was synonymous with danger. She couldn't make a scene. There wasn't really even a reason for her to feel so afraid. She refused to humiliate herself like that. Even if she allowed herself to panic, her uncle would make sure she never made such a mistake in public again. Saga swallowed dryly. What had just been a pleasant, jubilant warmth was now a suffocating dread. She wanted cold air. She wanted to be outside, where prying eyes couldn't deny her the tears that threatened to bubble up at any moment. She wanted to go home. Hvitserk was reaching for her again. She slammed her eyes shut, forcing a gentle smile.

"I can manage." She pronounced every word slowly and carefully, desperate to appear in control. Then, very carefully, she rose from her seat and attempted to step over the bench. She swayed a bit but managed to plant both feet firmly on the ground. The crowd was in full swing now and it swirled around her like the sky before a storm. As ill as she had felt while sitting down, this was much worse. She glanced pleadingly at Þorhild but Ubbe was carefully explaining to her the runes etched onto his belt and Saga knew her cousin would be no help. She turned her attention back to the table, lip trembling. All she saw were gentle faces. Why couldn't she just relax?

"She looks like she's going to faint." Ivar mused, leaning forward on his elbows. His eyes, which had earlier been so alluring, were now filled with a sadistic kind of satisfaction. Did he find her discomfort amusing? Saga wilted, hugging herself protectively. 

"Ivar, why must you be such a brat?" Spat Sigurd, rising to his feet to try his hand at helping the girl. He stepped over the table, much like his brother had earlier, but no sooner had he planted his foot on the wood did Ivar reach out to yank his ankle from under him. Sigurd went toppling into Hvitserk and the two were reduced to a cursing pile on the floor. Guests nearby erupted into laughter and Ivar's smug expression persisted. That was enough to rouse Ubbe from his love struck stupor. He stood, looking down at the tangle of limbs and burying his face in his hands. Torhild remained seated, eyes wide with shock.

"Can't you two stop your bickering for just one night?" Sigurd was up in a matter of seconds, fists balled at Ivar's mocking expression. 

"What's wrong, Sigurd? Did I embarrass you in front of the homely little slave?" Ubbe stepped between them, patting Sigurd gently on the shoulder. Slave. He had called her a slave in front of everyone. He had succeeded in utterly humiliating her. Hvitserk was up now, eyes trained upon Saga, already stammering an apology on behalf of his brothers. Fearing he might reach out to her again and overcome with shame, Saga stumbled backwards and into the rushing crowd. The last thing she remembered before she was briskly yanked from behind was Ivar's face. He was looking her right in the eyes, arms folded over his chest in triumph. This was the look of a man who was absolutely satisfied with himself. 

He was smiling at her.

Really, truly smiling.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really wasn't expecting to write this much so quickly, but here's four introductory chapters in 24 hours to wet your whistle. This fic is being written in real time so I'll try to slow down, otherwise I'm afraid I might burn myself out!
> 
> Bookmark this fic to receive updates on next week's Chapters. Thank you so much for your support. 
> 
> ♥ HAH


	5. Sowilo

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saga endures her punishment and Ivar stakes his claim.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The rune Sowilo, literally translated as "sun", signifies goal setting and eventual success. Sowilo promotes dedication and persistence in all endeavors.

The sky was the color of blood and everything had become fire. It spiraled up the trees, reducing them to cinder before her very eyes. The wind howled, or was it the sky itself as it tore open to rain darkness upon Midgard? A great shadow loomed over the destruction, stretching from one end of the earth to the other in a never-ending loop. Massive jaws unhinged, swallowing the sun whole as the Gods wept. The serpent had the most beautiful blue eyes she had ever seen.

Saga's eyes slowly flickered open and she was both relieved and disappointing to find the sun had not in fact disappeared. It was just cresting over the horizon, casting hot ribbons across her face. The sun seemed so impossibly bright that her eyes thrummed painfully in her skull at the sight of it. Her dream was quickly forgotten and a teeth-chattering pain took it's place. Lifting her hands to her face in the hopes of respite, her fingers brushed over her swollen cheek. Saga hissed in pain. The small sound jolted Þorhild from her generously stuffed palette. She crawled toward her cousin, eyes swollen and red. Had she been crying? 

"Saga... how are you feeling?" She cooed, face pulled into a pitying grimace. Saga hated that look. Fortunately, her eyes were too bleary to make out the expression. Her fingers pressed gently against her cheek again as she tried to distract herself from the throbbing in her head. Everything was painful. 

"What happened?" She croaked, finding her tongue unusually large and dry. She flicked her tongue over her lips in a futile attempt to moisten them and tasted blood. Her hands trembled. 

"You had quite a lot to drink. Hasn't anyone ever told you what happens when you drink too much? Father was furious..." Saga attempted to lift herself onto her elbows and was hit by another fresh wave of searing pain. Her toes curled in agony. She adjusted her nightgown, apparently someone had dressed her in it, and accessed the damage. Just as she suspected, several thin bruises were blooming across her thighs. They were ugly purple things but her dresses always covered them and they would only hurt for a few days. Her uncle swore by this punishment and Saga couldn't blame him for it. It tended to produce lasting results. Between the switch marks and the hangover, Saga vowed in that moment to never drink again. She readjusted her nightgown and laid her head back upon her furs, clenching her eyes shut.

"You should probably stay out of father's way today. He thinks you started an argument between the brothers. He was so angry he wanted to send you back home but I convinced him not to." Saga nodded gently, palm testing the tender skin of her left cheek. Very rarely did her uncle hit her face.

"Thank you for defending me. Is this... did he strike my cheek?" That was very unlike him. He would hate for anyone to discover he could be such a brute. Þorhild wrung her hands delicately.

"Father said he had no choice. He found you stumbling through the crowd. He said you were hysterical and he needed to bring some sense into you. Don't worry, no one saw. He waited until you were outside." Saga groaned as she adjusted herself but no position would ease the pain in her legs. Having lost her patience with the hard ground, she peeled herself from her bed and crawled pathetically towards the small hearth fire at the center of their tent. The fire had reduced to cinders hours ago and all that remained now was dust and the occasional smoking tendril. A wooden bucket filled with warm water sat beside the smoldering pile. She dipped her palms into the water, let it pool in her hands and drank greedily. 

Þorhild watched her in silence, shifting her weight impatiently, but Saga was too busy with her thoughts to relieve her cousin of whatever thoughts were agitating her. Why had she made such a scene in the first place? Her memory of the previous night was locked away behind a wall of slatted wood. She could only see slivers of conversation. All she knew for sure was that it was Ivar's fault. A lot of good that knowledge would do her. She couldn't very well blame it all on a Prince.

"I shouldn't have accepted that horn." What she really wanted to say was 'I shouldn't have spoken to that terrible boy.' Saga lamented, finally drinking her fill. Þorhild crawled to Saga and patted her shoulder gently, still chewing her lip. She had an odd expression on her face, considering the circumstances. She looked excited. Saga sighed, forcing a painful little smile.

"Did something happen?" She hummed, gently rinsing her face with the remaining water. 

"Things went very well with Ubbe." Þorhild squealed quietly, practically bouncing. Saga nodded, dabbing the pink-tinged water from her mouth with the sleeve of her dress. She had never felt such terrible pain in her entire life. No beating could rival this dreadful mead headache. Her stomach clenched with nausea and Saga had to swallow the urge to vomit up the water she had desperately craved only moments before. She lifted her eyes to her cousin, blinking several times to see her clearly.

"I am happy for you, Þorhild."

\------

Saga sat at the river's edge, a duo of stained gowns at her side. Clouds swirled above, hiding the sun just enough to make her headache tolerable. It had been several hours since she woke and, taking Þorhild's advice, she had kept herself busy with chores through the morning to avoid her uncle's lingering wrath. He had entered their tent only briefly that morning, directing all of his attention at Þorhild . There would be an archery display that afternoon and Ubbe had requested her presence. Saga would not be attending. She was grateful for that as the pain in her legs was nearly immobilizing and the mark across her cheek was humiliating to say the least. 

She held up the simple gown she had worn the night before, it's beige fabric a perfect contrast to the drops of blood that clung to it's front. Her nightgown was much worse, having pressed itself against her legs and face during the night. She sighed and began the arduous process of soaking, scrubbing and wringing her gown in a desperate attempt to dilute the stains. She would be lucky to receive another dress after this ordeal. The current swelled, due in part to the storm that raged during their journey down river.

Washing clothes was a rather mindless task and before long she found her mind drifting. Pieces of the previous night had made their way out of her subconscious, planting little seeds of disgust in the pit of her stomach. Ivar had been so cruel to her, and why? She thought herself perfectly tolerable company. She didn't speak unless spoken to, she nodded and smiled at all the right moments. What else could a dinner companion ask of her? She wasn't Þorhild. She was not there to amuse and entrance boys. He had said it himself. She was a slave. A glorified slave. It was hard to deny that truth when she was wrist-deep in blood stained clothing. 

She groaned loudly to herself, wringing the garment out for a third time. Did she really make such a fool of herself? How could she possibly face them again? She sunk the dress aggressively, holding it by the neckline. The current puffed the sleeves out as if they were being filled by a pair of translucent arms. Her eyes glazed a bit. How easy it would be to sink into that cold water.

"Going swimming?" A familiar voice jolted Saga from her thoughts and she nearly released her dress into the river. She would have received quite a whipping for that. She pressed the soaking dress against her chest, not caring that the cold water was seeping into her travelling clothes. Her brows narrowed at Ivar's approaching form. He was dragging himself along the ground, his bound legs lolling behind like the tail of a snake. His movements were practiced, his upper body strong and agile but the vision was still unsettling. A bow strung around his back suggested he had just left the training grounds. Perhaps if she didn't have such a horrible opinion of him at the moment she would have spared him a polite greeting but in a single night he had already proven himself totally unlikable. If it weren't for his face, he would be completely reprehensible.

Ivar dragged himself atop a flat stone at the river's edge, stretching his arms above his head casually. He watched her in silence, hands resting gently against his useless thighs. Saga fumed at that. She had half expected an apology for the way he had treated her the night before but he seemed totally relaxed. Why on earth would she want him near her? Didn't he have any shame? 

"Hvitserk was very disappointed that you didn't come to watch us shoot." He continued, voice thick with sarcasm. Saga raised her head to look at him, intent on expressing her distaste with an unpleasant look, but when his expression soured she suddenly remembered the state of her face. She looked down, allowing her short hair to cascade over her blemished eye.

"What have you done to your cheek?" Ivar breathed, scrunching his face up in disgust. He leaned forward slightly, pressing the weight of his upper body onto his hands. Her skin prickled at his amused tone. The know it all probably assumed she had fallen on her face from drink.

"My uncle saw fit to punish me for my dreadful display last night." Saga replied honestly. She had never been a good liar, her strict upbringing had made sure of that. She was pleasantly surprised when Ivar pulled away, dipping his head in silence. His eyes roamed over the clothing in her hands and at her feet and a look of confusion came over him. 

"If you are his family, why does he treat you with such cruelty?" He asked quietly. His voice was completely lacking in bite. Saga allowed herself another glimpse of him, her hair acting as a shield between them. His mouth was pulled into a tight line and his eyes were scanning the horizon. He must have been thinking awfully hard about something. In that moment, he looked wholly innocent. She grimaced, reminding herself of his deceptive nature.

"What are you doing out here, anyway? You're troubling me." Saga spat, avoiding his prying gaze. As expected, he ignored her question, shooting her an impatient glare. Her obedient curse urged her to comply, to take away any discomfort that she may have caused simply by existing.

"It is complicated." She sighed, wringing the wet dress between her hands. Perhaps she could humor him for a while longer. Þorhild was too wrapped up in her budding romance to lend an ear, not like she had been a trusted confidant prior to this trip. Besides, she had a pesky habit of taking her father's side in most matters. 

"My father died when I was very young and my uncle was the only one who would claim me. It was out of duty, not love." It felt oddly refreshing to say something so personal to someone she barely knew. He had no real opinion of her and so any judgements or comments he had would be unfounded. She could dismiss them as nonsense. If only she had been sober the night before, she would have employed this same logic with him then. They could have avoided so much trouble.

"Where is your mother?" He asked, watching her hands as they resumed their work on the bloody dress. 

"I killed her." Ivar stiffened. Saga covered her mouth, surprised by her own bluntness. She recalled the way Aslaug had doted on him during the feast. Ivar must have had a very close relationship with his mother. She scrubbed aggressively at her dress. The cold water was doing it's job well. The stain was nearly gone.

"She died in childbirth, not like it matters now." He softened at her explanation, mouth tilting into a slight frown. Did he feel sorry for her?

"I shouldn't even be speaking to you. If it weren't for your terrible comments..." Saga trailed off, finally pleased enough with her evening gown that she was able to switch to her heavily soiled night gown. There was a long silence between them. Ivar fidgeted every so often, as if to speak, but the words never came. Saga was growing so anxious that she nearly stood to leave, half-finished night gown in hand, when Ivar finally found his voice again.

"The things I said. I was only joking with my brothers. I didn't mean... you shouldn't be so sensitive. And it was stupid of you to drink so much. Do you always get so stinking drunk?" Ivar was clearly flustered as he danced around his apology. Saga's lips tweaked into a sardonic smile. He was a prideful one, this son of Ragnar. Was Torhild's Ubbe equally frustrating?

"I've never had a drop of ale in my life before last night - and I don't think I ever will again." She replied, smoothing the lines of her gown into crisp sections to avoid wrinkling it. She had removed the blood the best she could. She would leave it in the sun for a few days and hope for the best. Her head hurt and she was tired of Ivar's questions. She sat up on her knees and immediately regretted it, biting her lip to silence a painful moan. Having someone to talk to so openly had distracted her from her wounds for a moment and she had to slow her movements significantly just to rise to her feet. Ivar watched her as she struggled to stand, eyes roaming her body as if searching for the origin of her pain. Saga flushed, holding her neatly folded dresses against her chest.

"These are finished. I should go now." She turned, albeit slowly, and attempted to make her way back toward camp. It was a short walk, maybe 5 minutes, but her sore limbs would make it seem infinitely longer. Before she had time to pity herself and her situation, she felt a sharp tugging on the back of her dress. She halted, surprised, and turned her face back in Ivar's direction. His filthy hand was gripping her dress. Her first reaction was annoyance, she now had a third dress to wash. Ivar's eyes were burning holes through her and she felt her cheeks burn. 

"He hit you here as well?" Ivar asked, motioning towards her thigh. She nodded in response, arms trembling as she tightened her hold on the damp dresses. He paused for a moment, rubbing his fingers over the thin material of her dress. His other hand rested against his own thigh in a tight fist. Was he annoyed with her? The very idea of complaining about her legs to a cripple made her uncomfortable. Yes, her legs ached terribly, but they still worked.

"It's nothing. They will heal. They always do... what do you want with me?" She replied curtly, desperate to distract herself from the fluttering in her stomach. His eyes flicked up to meet hers and they held each others gaze for a long moment. Once again she took notice of the shape of his face - his lips, his nose, his cheek bones, his eyes, all stunningly beautiful. How could the Gods ruin such a lovely creature by giving it Ivar's temperament? 

She chided herself internally. She didn't really know this boy. She shouldn't deny him an opportunity to be kind. She had only met him the night before and it was under the influence of a regrettable amount of mead. He was being very gentle with her now, and only a little strange. His eyes were practically glittering. Then she felt the rough skin of his knuckle brush against her bare thigh. 

She had been so lost in exploring his face that she hadn't noticed how his hand had gathered up her skirts. Her slender leg was exposed up to the thigh and those angry purple blotches were on full display for him. She was transfixed by the feeling of a man's feather light touch in a place where men had only ever hurt her. His movements were delicate but clumsy as he traced his calloused fingertip over the tender lashes, stoking a fire deep within her stomach. His fingers trailed higher, dragging the loose fabric of her skirt up with them. He was nearly at her hip now and she could feel the crisp autumn breeze kissing her inner thigh. Then, he stopped. He splayed his hand over the expanse of her hip. She could feel his hot breath against her thigh. 

"I know you're afraid. I don't care about that. My brothers may have taken an interest in you but..." He finally found the strength to pull his eyes away from her bruises. His pupils were blown wide with a desire that had never been directed at her before.

"I want to be the one you favor." A toothy smile slowly spread over his lips. A true, eye-crinkling smile. Then she felt it. The red, hot flush of shame. He had humiliated her a second time. She couldn't let him continue.

"You - you're infuriating!" She snapped, yanking her skirts from his clenched fist and storming painfully in the direction she came from. The pervert, the absolute cad. His kindness had been an effort to work his hands over her body and she had allowed it. Did he really have nothing better to do than harass people and feel up vulnerable women? How many others had squirmed within his clutches? She crested the mountain swiftly, ignoring the burning pain that coursed through her body. 

She would destroy herself to get away from him.

\-------

Ivar's luck had been bountiful that day. Not only did he shoot better than his brothers in front of an entire camp of raiders but the girl he sought to find had left herself out in the open for him. The thought of crawling through the rocky hills to the camp ground just to steal glances at a timid girl was absurd and he was thankful to find her so close to town. Ivar made a fist, reveling in the memory of her smooth skin beneath his fingertips. Had he really been so bold?

She had long since disappeared over the hills yet his hand was still floating where she had left it. Rarely did the young prince question his motives and this moment would be no exception. A man like Ivar never felt it necessary to explain himself. The girl was pretty. He wanted to see her, so he went looking. He wanted to touch her, so he did. First of all, he was a man, and men took what they wanted. Secondly, he was a Prince, and Princes were entitled to everything within their kingdom. It was as simple as that. Was it his fault she was so sensitive to his teasing? She had lived a short but complicated life. The flaws in her personality were not his burden nor his interest. 

That being said, Ivar did feel a slight pang of... something. Curiosity, perhaps. Or frustration. Why did women always have to play such silly games? If she didn't want his hands upon her, she shouldn't have allowed him to come so close. She should have knocked his hand away the second she felt it upon her skirts. She should have left the river the moment she heard his voice. Instead, she lingered and watched as he explored her wrecked flesh then dismissed him when she grew impatient with his touch. Was he so revolting that she couldn't acknowledge his appreciation? That annoyed him. She annoyed him. Why did she have to annoy him so much? 

The events of the previous evening played again and again in his mind. While his brothers were busy clamoring over ale, he had actually taken the time to acknowledge her. In fact, he found her quite striking. He admired her face, plain as it was beside her beautiful cousin's, not because he was expected to but because he wanted to. He recalled the startling shade of her eyes as she stole glances over her mead horn, pale as a dead man's and just as frightened. The smattering of dark freckles across her nose rivaled the stars on a clear night. Her blunted hair alone was enough to make her stand out. She was different than any woman he had ever seen but that is what made her so satisfying to look at. Her expression was cold but thoughtful. Intelligent, even. Her first words were not for him, but for his womanizing brother Hvitserk. Oh, how that had boiled his blood. 

He realized the moment she spoke that he liked her better than her cousin. She was quiet and when she did say something, it was usually clever. She made his brothers laugh. He wanted to join in but he found it impossible to relax. He hated to admit it but it was difficult to be confident with two dead husks below his waist. Regardless, he had managed to catch her eye without really trying. He had suggested she wasn't a fool. She had smiled softly at him, not out of pity, but something else. She should have been grateful for the compliment the whole night through but of course she had found something else to be upset about. How like a woman. 

He recalled the way Saga's eyes glimmered with unshed tears at the word 'slave'. Perhaps he was a little cruel, the way he antagonized her, but the comment wasn't meant for her anyway. He only intended to belittle his brothers in front of her. Was she really so daft that she couldn't tell when he was talking to her and when he was talking to them? He recalled how they had clambered over one another to comfort her and his nostrils flared. His only relief had come when she threw herself into the crowd to avoid Hvitserk's grasp. He had actually admired her in that moment, so steadfast in her self preservation. Unfortunately, her uncle had her bested.

Her uncle.

His thoughts returned once more to the bruises upon her creamy legs, then the painful red mark on her cheek. How he desired to caress that wound, to weaken her with his touch and make her pliable to his advances. At least he had won himself a few moments of intimacy. Hvitserk could barely touch her arm without startling her and he had grabbed an entire handful of her flank without so much as a peep. His confidence surged and a familiar pressure fluttered low in his stomach. He wondered if a man had ever taken her. Was he the only one to caress her there? His cheeks flushed excitedly at the thought. His hands clenched into fists once more before pounding confidently against his stone seat. 

She would bend to his will, one way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy this VERY LONG chapter. I thought I would give you a lot to consider before the next installment- coming soon, Prologue: Part 2.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> ♥ HAH


	6. Prologue II - The Earl's Regret

"You said she would be ready by the next full moon and the moon has come and gone." Þorgeir groaned, covering his face with his hands. He was slumped over upon his throne, looking both tense and exhausted. Gudrid the midwife stood before him, pale eyes noting the deep lines and callouses covering the backs of his hands. Þorgeir was a young man of twenty, thrust into an Earlship after the untimely death of his father during a hunting trip the previous Summer. The weight of his rule was like a boulder on his back. Without the release of his marital bed he had grown anxious and irritated. Gudrid tutted softly but her voice was no comfort. In fact, it seemed downright poisonous at times.

"Þorgeir, I know it is difficult for a man to be denied by a woman, but she simply is not ready. Her blood has been heavy. I'm afraid Frigg is still working to unlock the knots in her belly." She walked slow circles around the Earl's throne, fingers grazing the intricately carved symbols at it's head. He had grown used to her prowling. He had also grown used to her dropping the honorific from his name.

"Then when? When will her energy return? When will the Gods open her up to me?" The death of his father had brought mortality dangerously close to the forefront of Þorgeir's mind. Even his elder brother, whose fame preceded him, was without child. How is it that two young, virile Earls could be without children? Was it some sort of curse? Had his family lost favor with the Gods? Perhaps it was his fault that Solvieg could not bring him children. He moaned pitifully, wracked by morose thoughts. The midwife's hands came to rest on his shoulders, as they often did these days. Solvieg had slept much of the month away and, having isolated himself from the outside world, Gudrid had become the Earl's only comfort. She kneaded away at his quaking shoulders, dislodging his tension and easing his tempers.

"There is witchcraft in those hands of yours, Gudrid.... thank you. I'm sorry that I have put you in a position to pity me." The midwife chuckled softly, breath hot against his ear.

"There is nothing to pity. You are a good man but your pride is suffocating you." Þorgeir turned his head quite suddenly, nearly knocking against her temple.

"What pride? I like to think I'm very humble." They both chuckled this time, easing the tension in the candlelit hall. Her fingers found a deliciously tender spot just behind his neck and Þorgeir hissed out the battling sensations of pain and relief. 

"A proud man denies himself pleasure in pursuit of honor. What good will you be to your wife in this state? When she is well again, I will be treating you for tension." Þorgeir hummed in response, leaning into her prying hands. A moment of silence lingered between them and then her hands were gone. He suppressed a disappointed groan and closed his eyes once more. Gudrid did not abandon him for long. His eyes popped open, surprised by the sudden weight of the midwife's core as it pressed against his crotch. She had swung her legs expertly over either side of his hips, hands pressed firmly against his chest. He opened his mouth to protest. Despite their sudden familiarity, there had been no real physical intimacy between them until this moment. 

"Don't worry, my Earl. Let me ease your pains." Þorgeir's hands found her waist in a gentle attempt to dislodge her from his torso but his hands had grown too used to emptiness and the feel of warm skin peeking out between the folds of her frayed dress sent a spark from his fingers to his toes. He stiffened, keeping her at arms length. He struggled to make out her features in the darkness. Was she smiling or scowling? The midwife savored the look on his handsome face. His eyes were a stormy blue and his hair, dark as wet soil, fell in thick waves just below his shoulders. His beard was slight and short, a hallmark of his youth. Þorgeir's breathing sped up as he found himself admiring her face in turn. She took this as a sign to continue. Her hands went to work again, dipping below his tunic to manipulate the muscled flesh beneath. His adam's apple bobbed in his throat. He could taste her breath, heady with wine and foreign spice. She clawed her way down his chest to the leather binders on his pants, tugging expectantly.

"P-Please, Gudrid." He stammered, drifting in and out of his own wits. The pain in his eyes struggled to fight through the lust as he was rendered powerless beneath her touch. She made quick work of the fasteners and slipped both hands down past his dark curls to grasp firmly around the base of his cock. The pleasure was overwhelming. He was already dribbling with precum. Þorgeir hadn't known the loving touch of a woman in months and when she worked her fists along his length he rolled his eyes as if it were his first time. Gudrid smirked at his eager response before hiking her skirts up and slowly impaling herself upon his throbbing member. His eyes clenched shut and he pulled her close, sobbing into her wild hair.

"I love my wife." He breathed, melting into bliss as she buried him completely within her warm, velvet walls.

"Of course, but you are only a man." She cooed, and rocked her hips until his shuddering release.


	7. Tiwaz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Þorgeir offers Saga a rather one-sided ultimatum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The rune Tiwaz represents the God Tyr who sacrificed his arm to bind Fenrir. Tiwaz is the rune of self sacrifice, peace keeping and honor but can also suggest the injustice of over-sacrifice.

Saga had smoothed the seams of her beige evening dress so many times that she had lost count. She often resorted to detail oriented tasks when something was troubling her. The repetition of folding and re-folding was just mind numbing enough to keep her from spiraling further into her unpleasant and obsessive thoughts. To cry would be a great relief but she couldn't risk falling into hysterics when the previous night's disaster was still fresh in her uncle's mind. Taking a beating in a drunken stupor had been much easier than bearing one with a clear mind. Saga's legs twinged painfully. Her fingers slid delicately over her right thigh and images of Ivar once more forced their way into her head. The pads of his fingers were much rougher than her own.

'I know you're afraid...'

"Stop that." She hissed, shaking her head in a doomed attempt to rid him from her thoughts. It was no use. She was afraid. His eyes had burned hot and cold simultaneously, melting something deep within her chest. She could still feel the cold trickle of it's unexpected thaw pooling in her lower belly. His teasing had been merciless the previous evening but there were moments that afternoon that felt sincere. Fallacious as he was, they shared an unfortunate flaw. Neither seemed capable of hiding their emotions. She and Ivar were simply too reactive to be coy. That being said, she couldn't quite justify Ivar's behavior nor did she understand it's effect on her body. 

Drunken warriors and cocky Earls had often wrapped their large hands around her waist, pulling her close in a show of masculine bravado. She would not struggle. Her uncle had made it clear that the pride of his esteemed guests and countrymen outweighed her objections. Those memories were nauseating to say the least. Not once had she looked back on a groping fondly. Time after time her aggressors were let off with a vacant smile and she would retire to her chamber to fill her pillow with angry tears. Saga absolutely detested men. Each had their vices. Uncle Þorgier's was a distaste for warmth and a propensity for sudden and explosive violence. Ivar's were just making themselves known to her.

His mask, though alluring, was fastened weakly atop the head of a mean-spirited and tactless child. His harsh words stung her heart like her uncle's blows stung her flesh. The only thing separating their crimes was the form they took whilst delivering pain.

'I want to be the one you favor.' Those words tormented her until Þorgier's return.

\--------

"It has come to my attention that you were not exactly to blame for the dispute between Ragnar's sons. Perhaps my punishment was a bit heavy handed." Saga's mouth bobbed. When Þorgier had entered her tent alone, a conflicted look on his face, she wasn't expecting him to express regret for his actions. This made for two half-hearted apologies in one day. A wave of relief washed over her, soothing the throbbing in her head and bringing a weak smile to her lips. She bowed her head appreciatively before readjusting herself upon a fur-lined wooden stool. It was the same stool Þorhild sat in when Saga styled her hair. She was normally expected to stand when he addressed her but, aware of the pain he had caused her, she was offered a comfortable seat.

"According to my daughter, you drank yourself sick at the young men's behest for fear of disappointing them - and, in turn, me. This falls well within my expectations of you. I can not fault you for that." Þorgier had begun pacing, eyes never meeting his ward's. She hung on his every word, shocked by his understanding. Þorhild had never gone so far as to defend her like this and it felt so damn good to have a second opinion on her side. Saga was nearly overwhelmed by the mishmash of emotions spinning around her head. She dabbed at her eyes, fearful of the annoyance her welling tears might cause.

"That being said, you drank far past your limits and made a fool of yourself before our hosts. Regardless of your motivations, this is unacceptable. You are forgiven this once but you know how I feel about second chances." The Earl finally ceased his tireless pacing, turning his back on Saga apathetically. Even in his sternest moments he couldn't bring himself to face her. Saga had always wondered why he found it so difficult to look her in the eyes. Yet another one of his unusual conditions.

"If this hysteria persists, you will sail with Knut back to Venessla. When my daughter weds - and I do mean when - you will not be in her service. Our business here is serious and, although Þorhild may suffer momentarily from your absence, I'm sure the Queen has countless slaves who can pin up an acceptable braid. I would rather lock you away in the thrall's quarters than allow your ridiculousness to interfere with my daughter's future. Do you understand?" The threat did not go unnoticed. Saga had an obvious choice to make. Withstand whatever discomfort came her way with grace and good humor or be resigned to live as a slave. A real slave. Her sniffling had quieted and her eyes, though pink, were bone dry. No matter how much she had suffered during her first few days in Kattegat, being sent back to Venessla would be a thousand times worse. Saga longed to remain in this warm and inviting city where Þorgier's plans offered her some sort of respite. If she could stand her uncle's temper for eleven years, she could bare Ivar's attention until raiding season began.

"I understand." 

"Good. Now, tend to that blemish on your cheek. We are expected at the King's table for breakfast at sunrise." Þorgier dismissed himself without another word and disappeared down the sloping hill. Saga remained seated, hands clasping weakly over her heart in silent contemplation. To submit seemed obvious but the choice wasn't so simple. If one had to weigh physical torment against mental torment, which was worse? 

\-----

Feeling somehow unburdened by Þorgier's stern warning, Saga stripped herself of her travelling clothes and took a wet cloth to her numerous scrapes and bruises. Afterwards she dressed herself in her freshly washed night gown, it's soft, scentless cotton lulling her into a deep sleep. Þorhild would not return until well after sunset and made her presence known by the wringing out of her washing rag over the filled basin. Saga's eyes fluttered and her breath came to a panicked standstill as she squinted against the darkness. Even by the weak light of the candle, Saga could see the obvious swelling of her cousin's lips and loosening of her curls. Her first instinct was to reach out and comfort her but further inspection would suggest that these were not the marks of a heavy hand.

"How was your evening?" Saga quipped, all too aware of the hour and it's scandalous implications. Þorhild, who had been busy wiping the scent of Ubbe from her neck, nearly dropped her rag in surprise. 

"Ssshhh! If father sees me like this he'll put me in a pair of iron knickers." She want back to work on her reddened neck and bust, cheeks flushed with embarrassment. Saga smiled to herself before curling into an aching ball. She watched as her cousin dabbed away the evidence of her indiscretions before abandoning her dress for something more comfortable. Saga was relieved to see that Ubbe's welts hadn't strayed any lower than her cousin's neck. Þorhild, though spirited, was naive. It was fortunate that the eldest son of Ragnar had some restraint. 

Restraint. 

Ivar's hand tugging at her skirt, grasping at her hip, restricting her movement... restraining her. 

"Are you feeling better?" Þorhild chirped, stirring Saga from her poisonous thoughts. She climbed onto her palette and curled up innocently beneath a massive sheep skin. 

"I'm fine." Saga replied in an uncertain tone. She wanted to tell Þorhild what had happened with Ivar but what advice could Þorhild give on the matter? What wisdom could she possibly apply? 

"...and everything is alright with father?" Þorhild whispered through a long, drawn out yawn. Saga smiled, swallowing her worries back into the dark pit of her stomach. She couldn't spoil her cousin's happiness. 

"Yes... thank you." The cousins exchanged knowing glances. 

Saga buried her face against her bedding but found herself wide awake. Dawn was coming. In just a few hours time she would be seated across from Ivar. He would attempt to provoke her for obscene reasons and, so long as she wanted any hope at a decent life, she would humor him. Whatever trouble Ivar sought to bring her, Saga could bear it alone.


	8. Nauthiz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saga and Ivar head for the hills.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Nauthiz, translated as "necessity" or more literally "need-fire", represents need, urgency and conflict. In divination, Nauthiz signifies resistance that leads to strength and primal truth. It also governs the development of magical will.

Saga felt surprisingly calm as she took her seat beside Þorhild at the King's table. Ragnar and his brood were already filling their metal plates from trays piled high with all varieties of fresh fruits and salted meats. Her hands rested lightly upon her lap, too overworked to bother with fiddling. She had the intricate double braid running down her cousin's back to thank for that. Despite the lack of sleep she was neither exhausted nor ornery and had managed to keep a placid smile on her face throughout the morning. With any luck that smile would persist through breakfast. 

Saga waited patiently for Þorgier to fill his plate, noting how deliberate his choices were. Even at home in his own court he would take his time in choosing only the pieces that pleased him, whether it be due to their shape or size or color. He was very particular but Saga didn't actually mind that about him. She was particular, too. Once Þorgier had taken his fill, Þorhild reached out to palm the nearest bunch of grapes. She had failed to inherit her father's neurosis. Ubbe's hand came to rest on her forearm in protest.

"Let me." He said quietly before taking her plate and delicately draping the grapes over it's center. Þorhild's gaze fell and she mumbled a gentle thank you. Ubbe beamed and eagerly went to work, picking her only the juiciest fruits. It was a small but clear gesture and everyone at the table took notice. Ivar let out an exasperated sigh and Saga looked up reflexively. His eyes were slicing daggers into Ubbe who, wrapped up in his lovesick exchange, continued none the wiser. Saga took a long sip of water to avoid sneering. Who was he to judge such an innocent display of affection? He should have been taking notice and learning how to properly interact with a woman. Her stomach churned.

"Aren't you going to eat?" Hvitserk asked between mouthfuls of salted fish. Saga eyed him wearily before dropping her eyes to his plate. What she saw forced her to stifle a laugh. Hvitserk's plate was littered with enough fish to satiate an entire family. She felt Þorgier's eyes upon her and dipped her head to hide her growing smile. She wasn't hungry but refusing to eat would be quite an insult to her guardian and her hosts. Ivar, none too pleased with a smile that wasn't meant for him, nudged his brother with a sharp elbow. Hvitserk let out a choking cough.

"Boys." Aslaug chided in her sing-songy way before gesturing to Saga with her cup. "Please, Saga, eat. There's plenty for everyone." 

Saga nodded vigorously, not wanting to draw any more attention to herself, and reached for a glistening red apple. As if anticipating her movements, Ivar's hand darted out and closed over hers. She yelped in response, yanking her hand back with such force that she nearly swayed backwards. Þorhild reached out to steady her cousin and the majority of the table broke into surprised laughter, save for Sigurd who was openly glaring at his younger brother. Saga shriveled. She could already feel the storm brewing in her uncle's clenched fists.

"You would think Ivar had snakes for hands." Hvitserk joked, shaking his empty cup in the direction of the nearest thrall. He was very good at lightening the mood.

"They're too slimy to be snakes. Eels, perhaps." Sigurd added. His comment was clearly meant to antagonize but Ivar, satisfied with his little victory, paid his brother no mind. His fingers closed around the apple while his eyes feasted upon Saga's startled expression. His response when he bested her was unsettling to say the least. Still, the way he lit up was undeniably beguiling. He brought the apple to his lips. Her eyes lingered upon them momentarily and she hated herself for it.

"Is everything alright?" Þorhild patted her cousin's hand reassuringly. Saga did not hesitate.

"I'm fine. I suppose I'd rather fall out of my chair than steal an apple from a prince." She replied cheekily. An air of calm fell over the table and Saga sighed with relief. Although she wasn't the best at lying, she could force herself to be charming when necessary. Þorhild seemed pleased with her answer and quickly resumed fawning over Ubbe. 

"Take that one - it looks much tastier than Ivar's." Hvitserk did his best to point while still holding onto his plate for dear life. Saga flashed her company a sheepish grin, thankful for his good humor. She plucked the apple from it's serving tray and took several cautious bites as the discussion turned once again to raiding. If she wanted to keep up appearances she would need to thicken her skin. At the very least she should pay careful attention to Ivar, lest he catch her off guard again. 

After a long and pleasantly uneventful meal, trays were cleared and sighs of relief filled the air. Saga's fingers drummed in anticipation. Surely they would be dismissed soon and she could return to camp, free of Ivar and his mischief for another day. Ubbe and Þorhild had been whispering back and forth and, save for the occasional giggle, the youth at the table had been unusually silent. Ivar, Hvitserk and Sigurd's attentions were fixed intently on their father as he and Earl Þorgier discussed sailing formations. Suddenly, Ubbe stood up and cleared his throat.

"If you'll excuse us -" He began, rounding the table with Þorhild in record time. "- I promised Þorhild I would show her the hot springs today."

Þorgier nodded indifferently but King Ragnar surprised everyone by gesturing toward Saga.

"Why don't you take this one along? She seems like she could benefit greatly from a soak in the springs." Saga's cheeks flushed as her gaze darted from Þorhild and Ubbe to the King. 

"My King, I'm delighted at the invitation, but... I wouldn't want to impose." Saga stammered. She could tell by the way Þorhild's shoulder softened that she was equally incensed at the prospect of Saga joining them in a private soak.

"Saga, It would be most unwise to dismiss the advice of a King, don't you think?" Þorgeir added, voice heavy with implication. Despite her own protests, the idea of soaking her bruised limbs in a private section of the spring was very tempting.

"But Papa, won't she be be terribly bored? Ubbe and I have so much to discuss and I wouldn't want her to feel left out." Þorhild pleaded. Þorgier chuckled at the transparency of her rebuttal. Ragnar seemed to share in the Earl's sentiment and gave Ubbe a stern look.

"Ubbe, take one of your brothers along. At the very least I will have less arguing to deal with while you're gone." Þorhild bit her bottom lip in unspoken frustration. Ubbe, hoping to make the best of the situation, looked expectantly to Hvitserk. He was mild mannered, entertaining and charming enough for even a frigid girl like Saga to warm up to him. Hvitserk was already rising to his feet when Ivar's hand came to rest on his shoulder.

"I will go. I deserve a good soak after yesterday's games." Ivar's offer seemed to shock everyone, even Ragnar, who had a pleasant little smirk on his face. Hvitserk's brow furrowed in irritation but, seeing as he wasn't the type to start a quarrel, he rolled his eyes casually and took another swig from his cup. Saga tensed but she wasn't at all surprised by the turn of events. 

"That's an excellent idea, Ivar. I was just about to suggest the same thing." Hvitserk's voice was practically dripping with sarcasm and Ivar offered him an insincere smile.

"Then it is settled." He added, not bothering to gauge Saga's reaction. He didn't much care for her opinion on the matter. 

"I'm sorry, but, won't it be a terrible inconvenience for you to... you know?" Þorhild made a crawling gesture with her hands and Sigurd nearly dropped his cup in a fit of laughter. Saga lifted her hands in protest. Ubbe, no stranger to his brother's tempers, closed the space between them. Ivar's eyes darkened at the mention of his apparent disability. His glare lingered upon Þorhild's innocent face and when he yelled, it wasn't to chastise her. It was to grab the attention of a nearby slave. The thrall approached, trembling allover. Saga's hands found their usual place on either side of her torso as she pondered the significance of that. Ivar mumbled something under his breath and the thrall nodded vigorously, practically running out of the hall toward his room. Ubbe relaxed and allowed his hand to rest on Þorhild's shoulder in a comforting gesture. 

Saga squeezed her arms around herself, not at all sure of what was going on until the thrall returned with two walking sticks. They were 'Y' shaped and wrapped in leather from point to point with sanded down animal hooves on either tip. The thrall handed them to Ivar and he dismissed her with an impatient wave. The thrall scurried off, a relieved look on her face. Ragnar let out a chuckle.

"So, Floki made good on his promise?" He hummed, reaching out a well worn hand to appraise the leather bindings of Ivar's new crutches. Ivar positioned the awkward poles beneath his armpits and lifted himself up with relative ease. He struggled a bit beneath his own weight but after a few moments of readjusting he managed to find a comfortable enough position to hold him mostly upright. Saga marveled at the full height of him. He was much taller than she had expected, only a few hairs shorter than his older brother and just as wide. Had he been born with healthy legs he would have been quite formidable. Hvitserk leaned in to give one of the polls a curious shake and Ivar slapped him away. 

"Floki delivered them yesterday. I practiced with them all night." He puffed out his chest, showboating for his audience. Even Sigurd looked impressed as his little brother moved the poles in time with each leg. Þorhild, utterly defeated, looked up at Ubbe impatiently. He responded by giving his brother a gentle pat on the back.

"Well then, shall we go?" Three pairs of eyes honed in on Saga, bidding her to stand. She shot a fleeting glance to her uncle before lifting herself to her feet and stepping apprehensively toward Ivar. The top of her head struggled to crest his collar bone. He looked down at her proudly and her only thought at that moment was how much more intimidating he seemed. 

\------

As expected, Ubbe and Þorhild had advanced quickly ahead, leaving Saga and Ivar to fumble through the forest alone. Although he had put on quite a show in the mead hall, trecking across the uneven ground on crutches was proving difficult for Ivar. His shoulders tensed and seized with every step and sweat was forming on his brow and neck. The path to the hot springs was hilly and his breath was growing heavier with each passing minute. Saga did her best to keep her eyes on her feet. She hated the idea of catching his gaze at a moment like this. If the look on that slave girl's face when he called had taught her anything it was that he was not the type of man to keep his frustrations to himself. She was also somewhat relieved that he required so much concentration to keep their current pace. The less breath he had in his lungs, the less he would be able to say to her, right? She clearly did not know Ivar as well as she thought she did.

"How... are... your legs?" Ivar managed, breathing out a word with each step. His delivery had been so silly that she actually found herself smiling in response. It also painted him in a better light that he bothered to ask about her instead of complaining. Maybe he had learned something from watching Ubbe. 

"Much better today, thank you." She replied curtly. Just because she was forced to be in his company didn't mean she had to put any effort into conversing with him, even if he was on his best behavior. There were a few more minutes of silence between them and in that time the terrain had only become more problematic. 

"Aren't... you going... to ask... about... mine?" Saga made a small choking sound. In actuality she was doing her best to strangle a laugh. The look he gave her was both irritated and relieved. For someone with only two moods he was incredibly expressive. It was fortunate that his current mood was favorable. 

"I'm sure your legs are fine." Saga breathed, eyes roaming over the oncoming expanse of forest she had yet to explore. She was surprisingly relaxed in his company today. His lack of antagonistic behavior was a welcome relief and seeing him struggle on his crutches lent him a sense of humility that she had yet to see in him. Although he was being more pleasant than he had the day before, she was still weary of him. One couldn't so easily forget a lecherous hand on their thigh, no matter how much they enjoyed the gentle sensation on her abused skin. Why did her brain have to remind her of that? Saga found herself feeling awkward again and widened the distance between herself and Ivar. 

She took several more steps, finally cresting the forested mountain. The hot springs lie temptingly close. She took several steps along the downward winding path before she realized the clacking of Ivar's crutches had ceased. She spun around to face him and was made speechless by his expression. Ivar's brows were knit into a furious v and his fists were shaking upon his walking poles. She dared not ask what was the matter. She only needed to take notice of the wet marks that had been growing beneath his arms and just below his neck. He was exhausted. How did someone who was too proud to be exhausted deal with being exhausted? 

"What are you staring at? Keep going." He snapped, startling her back a few steps. She was frozen in place, not quite sure if it would be better to stop or go. Although he had caused her sudden retreat, it had clearly stung him. He wanted her to comfort him but apparently he was incapable of cultivating her affection. His lips pressed into a pained line and he leaned his shoulder into a nearby tree, crutches handing a bit looser at his sides. Saga laced her fingers together, frantically searching her mind for something to say that might keep him from growing even more agitated. Her eyes scanned over the walking poles.

"These walking sticks were a gift, is that right?" Her voice was soft and uncertain and when Ivar's expression refused to soften she thought she had made a terrible mistake. Ivar sucked in a few deep breaths before breaking into a weak smile.

"From Floki, The boat builder. They're his own design. No one else in Midgard has anything like them." He boasted easily, no longer needing to fight for his words. His expression had softened but the smug look never quite left him. Saga should have rolled her eyes at him but he looked so approachable without that scowl on his face. His blue eyes searched hers, desperate to make her say something, anything.

"You must be very special to him." She replied, her own breaths coming easier now that she had successfully sailed him to gentler seas. She wondered, if she sat down, would he join her? Surely a short rest would benefit the both of them. She lifted her skirts demurely before settling into the most comfortable sitting position she could manage with bruises still spreading over her thighs. Ivar watched her with renewed interest but he didn't join her on the forest floor. Instead, he spun a bit on his crutches, eager to show off despite his fading energy.

"I guess, he practically raised me while my father was..." He couldn't bring himself to finish the thought, casting his eyes to the earth as another wave of frustration washed over him. Saga searched his face for meaning. His father's disappearance was a sensitive topic across all of Scandinavia. Her father had died when she was only 4 years old. She knew the pain of living without someone she admired, but when her father ascended to Valhalla, it had not been by choice. How awful it must have felt to have been purposefully abandoned for so long. The desire to comfort him arose once more.

"Your father seemed impressed by them." She added, biting her tongue in wait. She had chosen her words wisely. Ivar's smile returned. So, one could turn his sour temper sweet by praising him. Saga couldn't help but shake her head in amusement. How childish. Ivar shifted uncomfortably but he seemed to have recovered some of his stamina. Saga was surprised when he finally abandoned his crutches in favor of the earth. He laid them gently against the trunk of the tree he had been leaning against and used his hands to inch himself down into a comfortable sitting position. Satisfied with himself, he fell flat onto his back, arms outstretched, and groaned in relief. 

Saga leaned forward a bit to get a better view of this comical display. There was barely a foot between them now yet she wasn't worried. She was starting to understand how to converse with Ivar. She watched blankly as he sunned himself, warmth dancing over his face in chunky patterns. Ultimately, the light won out. The rays that streamed through the tree tops forced his eyes closed. How serene he looked when he wasn't scowling at the world. Saga found herself mesmerized by his features once more. How could a boy have such long, full eyelashes? She admired him a moment longer before pulling back into herself. Being with him for too long was filling her stomach with lead.

"We can turn back if you like." She said softly, chin tucked to her chest. Being with him was uncomfortable for too many reasons and if she could use his own fatigue against him, she would. Ivar shot up to his elbows, eyeing her suspiciously. 

"What? Why?" He barked, far too easily wounded. Aware of this set up, Saga shrugged in response.

"Am I really so repulsive that you can't even sit on the ground in my presence?" He was irritated but not shouting.

"I'm just... concerned... you haven't practiced much with those things. Won't it be difficult to go downhill?" Ivar made an obnoxious sound with his mouth, not unlike a horse braying, and flopped onto his stomach to get a closer look at her expression. Saga sat up straight, avoiding his gaze at all costs. His brows narrowed and she braced herself for another one of his unusual games.

"Why are you talking to me like I'm a child?" He stated flatly, completely ignoring her feigned sympathy. Saga's stomach threatened to tear itself in half. His temperament was too uncertain and she found interacting with him to be either terrifying, infuriating or exhausting. This short retreat had been the one exception to the rule. No matter how she fidgeted beneath his gaze he refused to let up.

"I... I don't know. " Saga faltered for a moment before returning to her trademark silence. Her tongue had failed her. Ivar's gaze intensified. She could feel it picking apart her expression. Sometimes she could feel it on the exposed part of her neck or the swell of her hips. His eyes were as greedy as the rest of him. It was as if he were attempting to take in every part of her at once. His gaze made her feel naked before him, and that feeling of nakedness became an all-encompassing shame. His eyes were portals exposing her to the world and she feared what the collective might see. The universe could reach out and touch her if it so desired. It was a terrible, violating feeling. Emboldened by her faltering, Ivar inched himself closer, sitting up so that he was a head or so taller than her. As if reading her mind, the fingers of his left hand twitched impatiently.

"It would do you well to look at me when I'm talking to you." His voice was deadly serious. His quaking hand finally closed the distance between them and Saga felt an odd pang in her core. It was urgent and desperate and it absolutely terrified her. His calloused fingers gripped her chin a little too hard and she winced, awakening the injured nerves in her cheek. Ivar forced her chin up, drowning her in his vibrant blue eyes. Her gaze dropped to his lips. She couldn't look him in the eyes. She feared losing herself in their darkness. 

"Look. At. Me." His grip on her chin tightened and her teeth dug painfully into the insides of her cheeks. Despite the fear welling up inside her, Saga remembered the promise she made to herself. She could bear this. She complied. Her pale blue eyes met his and an undeniable energy surged between them. It was as if something unable to be spoken had made itself heard. His fingers became gentle upon her and her eyes no longer fought to hold his gaze. His lips parted instinctively. Lulled into a sense of relaxation by her willingness, Ivar released his hold on her aching face. His fingers abandoned her chin in favor of her cheek and he expelled a shallow breath that tickled her lips. His inner voice begged, 'Don't be a coward!' Saga felt an unusual heat coursing through her. If she had to spend one more second with Ivar staring at her she would scream.

"We should go." Saga attempted to sit up but Ivar's free hand was quickly upon her. He held her wrist in his bruising grip, pulling her close. She was now on her knees before him and, despite the protests of her aching legs, she couldn't find it in her to make a sound. She hated the strange desire that brewed within her. It was a difficult feeling to come to terms with considering how much she feared him. Ivar inched ever closer, a clear look of displeasure etched onto his features.

"That's not what I want." His eyes were half-lidded now, as if to accentuate his point. Saga groaned, finally unleashing her annoyance. Just when she thought she was gaining the upper hand in conversation, he surprised her by going completely against his own patterns. She pressed him a little more, not bothering to hide the desperation in her tone.

"Please, Ivar. I want to go." He was still for a moment, considering her plea. That was the first time she had ever used his name and it tickled the hairs on the back of his neck. Why did his name sound so good on her lips? Physically, he had pulled her so close yet he could still sense how far away she really was. Her resistance hurt his pride and that infuriated him. Where he longed to see breathless, flustered want, he saw nothing but apprehension. Why didn't she want him? How could he make her want him? He searched her face for an answer. His grip on her slender wrist tightened and she hissed through the pain. What would he do now? Would he strike her? Would he force himself on her? Perhaps it was a fear of the unknown which kept him from taking what he wanted. Regardless of his subconscious reasoning, he saw no option but to release her.

"If you want to go, then let's go. Don't make me wait for you." He barked, letting go of her wrist and waving her away. Saga scrambled to her feet, dumbfounded, and made her way on shaking legs towards the heavy mineral scent of the hot springs. Ivar reached for his crutches and quickly hoisted himself back to his feet, jaw clenched with fury. He hobbled behind in silence, his mind frantically piecing together the next plan of action. 

He swore to himself then that If she refused him a second time, he wouldn't be so forgiving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finally happening, Saga is getting a better sense of Ivar's motivations and Ivar is making moves. They're not very successful moves but he's making them. This will be the last chapter for this week. Check back on Monday for an obligatory hot spring scene!
> 
> I'm a little self conscious about this chapter and I hope you enjoy it.
> 
> Thanks for reading!
> 
> ♥ HAH


	9. Laguz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar takes more than Saga is willing to give.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING! Light Non-Con Ahead!
> 
> 1\. Laguz - "Water", the rune of life's longing. The rune of emotion, the astral plain and evolution. Manipulation and lack of moral fiber are on the reverse.

Þorhild had just finished slipping the hem of her dress over her legs when Saga entered the misty clearing. She had spent the remainder of the short treck in silence, hands clenched uncomfortably at her sides. Her steps had been quick and impatient following Ivar's aggressive handling of her face but not once had he called out for her to slow down or complained about her pace. She had only been certain he was still behind her by the occasional grunts and trickles of loose rock that rolled past her feet with his careful (or not so careful) steps. 

"There you are! You took so long, we've already finished." Þorhild called out cheerfully to her cousin, refreshed by her brief soak. Ubbe had the ends of her long braids in his hands, gently wringing the moisture from them. He lifted his gaze to greet Saga and his brother but the smile drifted slowly from his face when he caught her expression. Saga was breathless, which was to be expected after the winding journey down the rocky path, but her face was at least a shade paler than he had remembered it. His eyes narrowed with curious concern before roaming up the hill to observe his brother. 

Ivar was finally making his way onto the flat grass, neckline soaked through with sweat. His knuckles bore various scrapes and wet dirt was swiped across his forehead. He must have fumbled on his way down. 'I hope that explains the looks on their faces,' Ubbe thought. Ivar wasn't concerned about the journey or his various fumbles on the way down. His ego had once again taken a small blow at Saga's resistance, and even the smallest of setbacks could set fire to the insides of a person like Ivar. Ubbe gave him a questioning look but Ivar refused to meet his gaze. His eyes were clouded in thought, preferring to watch the swirls of steam rising from the hot springs.

"Never mind, the two of you can have a nice soak together." Þorhild chirped, reaching out to take Ubbe by the arm. Saga felt herself tense up. Would she really be left alone with Ivar again so soon? 

"You're leaving?" Saga rushed to Þorhild's side, wary of Ubbe as she approached. She could only hope the look on her face conveyed the nature of the sickness in her stomach. She did not want to be left alone with him again. Despite his obvious intentions, Ivar acted without thinking. It was impossible at times to choose a behavior that would suit him. Rebuking him could just as easily result in being ignored as drowned. Her eyes pleaded with her cousin, 'Please, don't leave me alone with him again.' But Þorhild was a selfish creature when she was with Ubbe.

"Yes, I'm exhausted." Her cousin continued, slipping into her flat leather shoes. Saga's thoughts careened around her skull, desperate to find a way out without seeming too eager to flee.

"But won't Uncle be upset if you return without me?" The mention of Þorgier earned her an annoyed huff from Þorhild.

"Saga, It will be fine! He's going to be with the strategist all afternoon. He won't even notice you're gone. You should be grateful to be without him for a while. Come, Ubbe." Þorhild blurted out rather quickly, hooking her delicate arm around Ubbe's muscled bicep and pulling him playfully in the direction from which they came. Saga hated to admit it but her cousin was right. She was relieved to be away from Þorgier, which was why she hadn't entirely opposed the idea at breakfast. Unfortunately, trading Þorgier for Ivar seemed pointless.

Saga traded looks between Þorhild and Ubbe. She just wanted to spend more time alone with her suitor. Saga's hands found their way to her neckline where she tugged anxiously at the plain embroidery of her dark dress. Ubbe, not quite so single minded as her cousin, had been observing Ivar for the past minute or so. He could sense something wasn't quite right but the way Þorhild tugged at his arm won out in the end. He lingered for a moment longer, patting his brothers shoulder as they passed.

"Be gentle with her, Ivar." Ivar grunted, eyes still locked on the hypnotic bubbling of the small spring.

\------

"Get undressed." Ivar grunted, settling himself down on a tall rock and laying his crutches delicately beside it. He went to work right away on his arm bracers, undoing several locked buckles per arm before shaking the heavy leather things from his forearms. His eyes darted from his hands to Saga's watching face and each time he caught her staring, she would quickly turn away. A man had never undressed in front of her before. Sure she had seen naked children and women and sometimes the men at Earl Þorgier's raving parties would pull out their members in a drunken stupor but this was an entirely different act. It was much more intimate. She blushed, eyeing his legs cautiously through his pants. All too aware of her staring, Ivar let out an irritated sigh.

"Are you going in or not?" His tunic was rolled up to expose his forearms now and they looked unbelievably strong. All of that crawling had given detail to muscles she didn't even know existed. He could throttle her with a single blow.

"I'm not sure." She breathed, hands writhing.

"Saga... please. Just get in the water." Ivar groaned, resting his elbows against his thighs. His face was exhausted, both from scaling the mountain and bickering with her. Please. That was a word she was certain he didn't know how to pronounce. She bunched her skirts up in her hands cautiously. Maybe it would be a good idea to reward him when he was gentle. Saga nodded, searching the clearing for a private spot where she might undress. Ivar grunted impatiently.

"What's the problem? Have you never taken a bath before?" He asked flatly. 

"Will you turn away?" Saga mumbled, certain the answer would be no.

"No." Ivar responded, eyes fixed curiously upon her newly exposed shins. She nearly laughed at his predictability but the idea of making herself nude in front of someone like Ivar quickly sapped all the humor from her.

"I can't undress with you looking at me..." She continued, hoping to ply him with her shyness.

He took one last sweeping look over her form before tilting his head in the opposite direction. A pleased little smile passed over Saga's lips. Finally, she was starting to get her way. She watched him hesitantly, certain he would try to peek at her but relieved when he didn't. He busied himself with the fasteners on his leather chest piece. She wondered quietly to herself why he had worn all of those heavy adornments when he wasn't crawling but she assumed it would be better not to ask. Already she was turning her back to him and removing the corded belt at her waist. 

Saga moved agonizingly slow, whether it be tucking the short hair behind her ears or slipping the fabric of her dress from her shoulders. The unflattering mass of dark fabric slid down her frame. She hesitated as it neared her hips, throwing an accusatory glance over her shoulder to ensure Ivar was keeping his part of the bargain. What a mistake that turned out to be. Ivar had made a neat pile of his leather attire and was currently pulling the beige tunic over his head. It yanked at his hair on the way over, forcing him to pause and re-position his arms. This allowed for an uninhibited view of his well defined back and shoulders. His firm biceps slid into view as he tossed the garment carelessly aside then messed his fingers through his cropped hair. She quickly spun her head around and her dress pooled at her feet.

She stood awkwardly with her arms protectively covering her breasts, bare backside facing him. She could hear him struggling with his boots, all the while standing dumbly behind him. Had she been brave enough to sneak another look she would have noticed how his eyes flickered over her bareness between each bit of discarded clothing. He smiled appreciatively when her ass finally came into view. It was a shade lighter than her sun-kissed face and despite her small hips it was surprisingly plump and shapely. His breath hitched with excitement.

"Why are you standing there? You can go in." He chuckled, pants undone but still sitting protectively upon his hips. Saga inched her way sideways towards the steaming pool, careful not to let her hands drop. Ivar burst into careless laughter. She was so bashful. 

"I've seen breasts before, you know." He added and she dared to toss him a pouting glare. Ivar dipped his chin. She slid carefully into the spring, sighing openly as the hot water swallowed the pain from her feet, then her calves and up her aching thighs to her equally sore back. She submerged herself to the collarbones, resting comfortably on her backside with her shoulders against the bank. Even with her current company this was heavenly. Her eyes closed in relief and Ivar made quick work of his pants before dropping onto his side and easing himself onto his favorite spot. There was a flat expanse of rock that made for a comfortable ledge and covered him only up to his ribs. His arms came to rest lazily on the surrounding stone. For a while they were content to say nothing, both enjoying the soothing heat as it cooked away their pains.

"Come closer." Ivar offered, trying his damnedest to appear welcoming despite their earlier dispute. Maybe the springs had reset his volatile temper.

"Perhaps we should stay like this a while longer." Saga managed, hands gripping absently at the sediment heavy water. Although her body looked relaxed, her tone of voice was stiff again. 

"Why are you talking like that?" Ivar spat, tension returning to his body.

"I'm sorry, I don't understand?" Saga countered, though she was certain she knew exactly what he meant. Since that morning she had done her best to speak politely and plainly to everyone who would have otherwise bothered her. Although not exactly agreeable, she thought it made her seem pleasant and sophisticated and she hadn't considered how it could land her in any trouble. That tactic may have worked with Þorgier but Ivar wasn't having it.

"You've been speaking to me like a diplomat all morning. It's annoying." Ivar demanded authenticity, even if it risked fanning his anger. 

"How do you prefer I speak to you, then?" Saga replied, growing tired of his mood swings. It seemed like his temper changed with every sentence and he was rapidly exhausting her again. Fear had given way to a lazy sort of rebelliousness.

"Don't be so boring. Speak to me like you spoke to my brothers at dinner - or when you told me about your father. Like you actually give a damn about what you're saying. Anything but this." Ivar wasn't wrong for wanting her to be genuine but he seemed to be unaware of the position he was putting her in. Saga did not like to feel humiliated, teased or terrified and he was very good at making her feel all three of those things without warning. She juggled his complaints and, lulled into a false sense of security by his sudden vulnerability, dropped the act for just a moment.

"Have you ever considered that maybe I don't want to talk to you?" She countered. Saga had found her courage briefly, which was what Ivar had asked of her, but now she had landed herself in a precarious situation. He wanted authenticity, but he also wanted kindness. She had forgotten to sweeten her opinion with humor or humility. She braced herself for whatever might come next.

"What is wrong with you!?" Ivar roared on queue. Saga felt herself shutting down again but this time the proximity and lack of protective covering between them was like a dagger to her neck. Her cheeks, still tender from his earlier onslaught, flared in warning. She inched her body slowly against the shore. Ivar gripped the edge of the springs and cleared half the pool in a single movement.

"I didn't mean-" Her lower jaw trembled as she struggled to find the right words beneath his wild gaze. She was a fool to think she could be so blunt with him.

"I offered to bring you here in front of everyone and you can't even pretend to be flattered. Why do you insist on making a fool of me?" His fury continued as he reached her cornered form. Stupid girl, her brain screamed, which only fueled her heels as they struggled to find traction over the moss covered rocks. Her hands reached out, feeling blindly for something to hold on to. She refused to take her eyes from him lest he pounce on her.

"Don't touch me! You can't make me-" His calloused paw shot out, securing it's place firmly around her neck and cutting her words in half. 

"Shut up!" The vein in his temple bulged with every word. Saga's fists clenched in determination. Bearing his attentions did not include allowing herself to be thrashed. Her eyes widened in panic and she beat her small fists against his chest, desperate to free herself from the the impromptu collar.

"Who are you to tell me what I can and can not do?! Are you really so careless with your own life?" He continued through gritted teeth. Her eyes locked upon his canines. They protruded more like a wolf's than a mans. Her hands still slapped and pressed weakly against his bare chest, sending short sprays of water cascading up his neck and into his eyes. The water afforded her no grip and her blows skid over him like stones on the face of a pond.

"Stop that!" Ivar shook her roughly by the neck and still she was wild against him. His lips quirked up at the corners. He brought his opposite hand up in a fumbling attempt to grab at her flailing arms but to no avail. She fought him like a rabbit in a snare, instinct bidding for release. He did the only thing he could think to do and tightened his grip around her aching throat, slamming her back against the stone shelf of the hot springs. 

"You fight as if you have a chance of overpowering me." He growled, eyes blown wide. He looked so unlike himself in this moment yet somehow this behavior suited him completely. Saga's face contorted in pain and she let out a chain of choked coughs. He was right. It was useless to struggle. Her head slumped backwards and stray blades of grass tickled her ears. Exhausted from fighting against the weight of the water and startlingly aware of the lack of air filling her lungs, her hands came to a trembling rest just inches in front of him. Her fingers crested the water like spikes in a trench, the last line of defense against a man whose ambitions knew no ends. Her cheeks flushed and her mouth hung open, panting. He breached the line, closing the distance between them.

"Good..." Ivar breathed, voice dropping to a gruff whisper as he slid his eyes hungrily over her face. She sucked in a hot, wheezing breath, bringing her hands over his own in search of air. His gaze dipped to his hand over her throat, now encased by her two smaller ones. His breath quaked and the muscles in his abs tightened. The struggle alone had been enough to flood his stomach with arousal but it wasn't until she laid her hands softly against his own that his body responded in full. He suddenly remembered catching glimpses of his brothers and their whores in their shared bedchamber but he never thought the build up would feel like this. Everything seemed so urgent. His sight slid lower still, forcing his uncertainty down. 

"Just stay like this. I don't want to hurt you." The angle at which he still held her had caused the tops of her small breasts to arch over the surface, rising and falling with each desperate inhalation. His chest pressed ever so gently against the peaks of her nipples which, to Saga's only relief, were still beneath the surface of the water. Ivar's lips parted softly at the contact. 

"But you do hurt me. All men have ever done is hurt me." She cried out as if trying to remind herself that what her body felt was absurd. There was the sincerity Ivar had been craving. Although her words were rather depressing they filled him with a sick sort of hope. He came to a very obvious conclusion. If he wanted her to respond to him, he had to make her feel good. Unfortunately, he had never touched a woman so intimately before and he wasn't sure how to go about it. He propped himself up with his free arm and his body settled beside her. His thumb rolled deliberately over the bone in her throat, testing it's defenses. Saga chewed at her bottom lip. She could feel his chest against hers as she searched for breath and her leg bumped occasionally against his. 

"I won't - just stop fighting me." Ivar was tired of civility. He would follow Ubbe's lead and take what he wanted. He abandoned her throat for the back of her head and pulled her mouth to his in a painful kiss. She whimpered through her nose, eyes wide and sparkling with fresh tears. Her jaw trembled against him. His lips felt so warm and plush against her own but the way he growled deep in his throat stripped any misgivings of affection from the act. She parted her lips in shocked protest and was met with Ivar's eager tongue. He touched it to her teeth experimentally but Saga was unpracticed and her mouth refused to respond. He lingered there for a short time, tasting the softness of her lips before breaking off to analyze her expression. Where he was hoping to see breathless, flustered want, he saw nothing but fear. 

Saga brought her fingers to her lips and was surprised when she pulled them away clean. She had expected blood. Her first kiss was rough, painful and without warning. It did not fill her stomach with warm mead like Þorhild had promised it would. The bitter taste of regret was all that lingered. Her body ached and burned worse than it had before she had entered the hot spring and she watched him in a daze as he leered over her, contemplating his next move. His hand left the tangle of her short hair, sliding feather light down her neck and she stiffened, fearful that he might strangle her again.

"Be still." He warned, hand trembling as it fell to her breast. He tested the soft flesh, squeezing much too tight before tugging eagerly at her nipple. It stiffened into a small, sweet peak before his eyes. A genuine smile came over him. This was a day full of firsts for Ivar. Saga screwed her eyes shut in response. She wanted to hate him but her body was rapidly trying to change her mind. Ivar's breath was coming in hot, heavy waves over her face as he ground his half-woken member against her outer thigh. The panicked feeling overtook her again. He felt her go rigid and the same fire igniting his passions urged his fury. Why wasn't she making any noise? Unwilling to admit defeat, Ivar dipped his head into the crook of her neck and placed a firm kiss against her throat. Saga sighed unexpectedly. It was almost pleasant. Her body was seeking to replace the fear with pleasure and she inadvertently craned her neck to him. Ivar beamed victoriously, scraping his teeth against her delicate neck. He praised himself for remembering the details of his brothers' conquests.

"It doesn't have to hurt. Just let me..." His teeth and lips dragged experimentally over her collarbone, begging her to relent to him - and she did. A cocktail of fear and arousal softened Saga's joints and she went limp in his grasp. Her body shook despite the warmth of the spring as she welcomed the heady affections of a man for the first time. His tongue lathed across the top of her breast and Ivar couldn't keep himself from releasing a throaty groan as he tasted her. He felt a sudden rush of blood to his groin and was surprised to find he had never been so hard in his life. He was only able to relax when she yielded, which made him uncharacteristically gentle. She found the strength to drop her gaze to his lips. The thoughtless desire to claim them tormented her. His blunt nails scraped over her rib cage and across her stomach which tensed immediately upon contact. He was going to touch her. She imagined his rough fingers raking through her delicate folds and reached out to grab his shoulders, pressing desperately against him in a bid to slow his wandering hand. What was she thinking? She did not want this. Ivar's eyes snapped open, surprised by her sudden refusal. His hand abandoned her stomach to grasp for her wrist. If he had to restrain her again, so be it.

A rustling of leaves and an innocent laugh stopped Ivar's assault, pulling him back into his surroundings.

"Oh - have we come at a bad time?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't abstain from the smut any longer. It's been, what, three days since Ivar forced his way into Saga's life? Their "relationship" is moving quickly but impatience is the Hallmark of young love. Just look at Romeo and Juliet. On a serious note, if you're questioning my decision to move things along so suddenly, please let me know about it in the comments.
> 
> How do you guys feel about these longer chapters? 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone who has read, commented and bookmarked. It's been great interacting with you.
> 
> ♥ HAH


	10. Ehwaz - Side 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Floki gives Ivar some much needed, though metaphorical, advice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Ehwaz - literally "Horse." This is the rune of loyalty, teamwork and trust, whether it be between platonic friends, entities or lovers. 
> 
> 2\. Sol and Mani - Sol is the female Sun, and Mani is the male Moon. Brother and sister, they emerged during the creation of the universe. They ride swiftly on horse-drawn chariots as they are endlessly chased across the sky by the wolves Skoll and Hati, who will overtake them come Ragnarok.

Both Ivar and Saga snapped their heads towards the source of the merciful female voice. There stood a slender woman, long blonde hair tumbling wildly over her shoulders. She was nude and fully exposed to them, save for a small wooden bowl resting in her hands just over the soft part of her stomach. Saga took the opportunity to scoot out of Ivar's grasp. She pressed herself against the embankment, arms thrown around her knees protectively. Although every inch of her body urged her to scream for help, she was far too aware of her predicament to act upon it. Besides, the expression on Ivar's face suggested it would be in vain. 

He had gone from furious to surprised to relieved in a matter of seconds. He sat up and leaned his upper body onto the grass, not bothering to reach for Saga as she inched herself to the opposite end of the pool. Although a slight look of annoyance was painted over his features, the arrival of a second figure from the brush, a wild looking man with heavily kholed eyes, transformed it into a cocky grin. The man wore a pair of loose cotton pants, much to Saga's relief, but nothing else. A high pitched giggle tore through the air as the strange man gave Saga a once over. Ivar ran a wet hand through his hair bashfully.

"Helga, Floki... what excellent timing." He announced, voice thick with more than a little sarcasm.

"We aren't interrupting anything, are we?" Helga lips pursed, more than a little confused by the scene playing out before her. Ivar's cheeks were flushed and his eyes were sparkling beneath their sleepy lids. The girl, on the other hand, had put so much space between the two of them that you would think Ivar was infected with the plague. Her gaze switched patiently between him and his companion. 

"Not at all, we were just settling down for a meal -" Ivar purred. He looked around him in mock surprise, sweeping his bare hands across the surface of the water, "- and would you look here, there's plenty of food for everyone."

"Maybe we should come back later." Helga leaned close to her husband, bringing her voice down to a half whisper. Despite her reservations about interrupting Ivar's play date, her kind blue eyes never left the panicked girl at the water's edge.

"Don't be silly, we came all this way for a soak and we will soak." Floki trilled, already pulling the loose harem pants from his long, skinny legs as he advanced. He hopped a bit on one leg, then the other, before padding quickly into the shallow spring and settling into a comfortable supine position beside Ivar. The young man stared daggers into the old and was about to give him a good tongue lashing before he finally noticed Saga's retreat. He whipped his head around suddenly.

"Where are you going?" Ivar's brows twitched, his pulse quickening. Saga had abandoned her modesty in favor of escape and was sloppily pulling her loose cotton dress over her small breasts. This was his first good look at her bare chest and the circumstances were less than agreeable.

"We've been out for so long, I have to go." She stammered, finally succeeding a third time to slip the sleeves of her dress over her slender arms. Saga couldn't bring herself to look at the eager face and muscled torso observing her impatiently from the water.

"No you don't. You're with me." Ivar barked back, fingers digging into the grassy embankment. He was so, so close. Never had he ever been so close to a woman. Never had he tasted a woman on his lips, whether it be the flesh of her mouth or the skin beneath. Now that he had his greatest youthful desire dangling at his fingertips, he couldn't stop just before the grandest mystery of all had revealed itself to him. His cutting tone fell on deaf ears. Saga was already slipping back into her shoes.

"Ivar, who is your friend?" Helga cooed, a vacant smile lighting up her face. She watched in silent amusement as Saga gathered up her simple adornments, too humiliated to stick around and put them on. The women traded smiles though Saga's was a practiced pleasantry.

"This is Saga." Ivar stated, jaw clicking nervously from side to side. He lifted himself gently onto the bank, lower half still submerged, but Floki's palm pressed him firmly down by the shoulder. He swatted against the intrusion but did not attempt to get up a second time.

"Hello, Saga - I'm Helga. That is my husband, Floki." Saga nodded rapidly, pulling her braided belt close, twisting it in either anxious fist.

"It's nice to meet you, and I am very sorry, but I have to be going. My uncle will be expecting me." She turned toward the hillside, legs practically twitching with impatience. Although she hadn't given herself the time to process what had just happened between herself and Ivar, her nerves were quickly reducing her to a red-cheeked, shaking mess in front of these strangers. 

"You're really going to run off now?" Ivar added, clearly disappointed. He had grown used to her resisting him but not once had she ignored his warning tone altogether. Something in his chest felt heavy and empty at the same time. It soured his stomach and balled his fists into pulsing weights. He didn't want her to retreat, especially not now. Helga's expression cooled as she navigated their distant back and forth.

"It's alright, Ivar, I can take her back into town." The blond closed the distance between herself and Saga, reaching out a comforting hand but hovering it just above the frightened girl's arm. Her smile was sweet and sincere. "We can get to know each other on the walk, what do you think?"

Saga's trembling hands released their death grip on the belt. This woman's aura was maternal and it wasn't lost on her that she was being offered an opportunity to escape without Ivar being able to express his wrath. He seemed so reserved in front of them. Were they family members?

"Yes... Yes, that would be fine. Thank you." She breathed and Helga's gentle hand finally came to rest on her aching bicep. She had been pressed so fiercely against the stones that her bones were thrumming. Helga released her just as quickly as she had made contact and ducked into the brush to gather up her simple white dress. She dressed quickly and gracefully and Saga searched for anything that would distract her from Ivar's burning gaze. She could feel it scorching up her neck, drinking in the ruddiness of her cheeks, evaporating the drops of spring water beading down her drenched hair. Helga tossed the washing bowl playfully to Floki and linked arms with Saga. "Let's go, darling."

"I'll come to you tomorrow. Be waiting for me!" Ivar called after them, eyes pleading for Saga to look back. She spared him no last look and his anger came bubbling to the surface. If his legs had allowed it he would have chased her through the clearing and came down upon her like a wolf upon an elk. Floki, no stranger to Ivar's explosive temper, scooped the wooden bowl into the water and tossed it's contents gleefully against the side of Ivar's head. The young prince thrashed, wiping his palm over his stinging eyes.

"Where did you find a girl willing to tolerate you?" Floki giggled in his delightful way, drawing an unpleasant sneer from his company. Floki could have sworn in that moment, even if the spring were tepid, Ivar's anger would be heating it to a boil. He filled the bowl a second time, shaking it in Ivar's direction, an innocent threat meant to lighten the mood. Ivar breathed heavily, rough hands running through his hair and tugging fiercely at the ends. His hands came to rest over his face and he mumbled through them.

"The Earl who has come from Venessla, she is his niece." Floki's eyes went wide at the idea of a brat like Ivar convincing anyone other than a slave girl to accompany him to the hot springs.

"A proper lady - not that a dog like you would deserve one." Ivar prickled, shooting Floki one of his signature dark glares, lips pulling into a flat line over his clenched teeth.

"Why are you suddenly so interested in who I keep company with?" He countered, turning himself to settle into the same earthen crook where Saga had been lying beneath him moments before. His mind wandered. He loved the way her pupils dilated when his hand closed around her delicate neck but more so he loved the little noises he had won from her with his lips and tongue. He chewed his lip, suddenly curious - how would it feel to have her mouth on him like that?

"I've never seen you with a girl before. What is it you like about her?" Floki replied, stealing his attention.

"What?" Ivar shifted uncomfortably, hands clasping behind his head in a faux display of confidence.

"Why did you choose her?" Floki continued. The old man was now ladling hot water onto his lightly-haired head and shaking himself out like a dog. Ivar scrunched his face at Floki's signature mannerisms. Why did he choose her? That was a stupid question.

"Well, she is nice to look at, don't you think?" Although he was a clever boy, gifted at tafl and very good at getting his way, It was so like Ivar to only think of the immediate when it came to people. Saga was pretty. He liked her eyes and her freckled face. He liked her dark hair, so unusual in Kattegat that he could count on two hands how many townsfolk weren't fair haired - himself included. Now that he had seen more of her, he liked her fair skin and slight curves. Her breast had fit perfectly within the palm of his hand. He liked the soft, welcoming flesh of her lower stomach and the sound of her voice when she spoke in a nervous whisper. 'All men have ever done is hurt me.' He felt a sudden pang in his chest. He didn't want to remember that.

"- but what is so special about her?" Floki was floating on his back with the washing bowl balanced on the flat expanse of his solar plexus, eyes fixed on the clear blue sky. Ivar glared at him, trying to decipher his meaning.

"Why does she have to be special? I wanted her, so I took her." What had once been a simple truth was now becoming a small and convoluted lie. Whether he wanted to admit it to himself or not, there was something special about Saga. Why else would he keep her around? He hated the way she withdrew from him, both physically and mentally. He hated working for her smile and forcing his way into her plans. He hated how she made him want attention without even trying. His brother's women always seemed too interested. They fawned and giggled and their touches came easily and frequently. He wanted Saga to reach out to him like that. Having to initiate every form of conversation and contact made him feel unappealing which in turn infuriated him. To keep someone around who was constantly frustrating meant one of two things: Ivar was stupid, or Saga was special. Another rasped laugh from Floki drew him back into the present.

"You do not take a woman, Ivar. You earn her." 

"I was taking her just fine before you arrived." Ivar's words often dripped with false confidence but he wasn't too far from the truth. If Floki and Helga hadn't arrive when they did, he would have had his fingers buried in her in a matter of seconds. She had grabbed him, probably because she was afraid. He could tell by the way she refused him that she was innocent. That only fueled his desire. He wanted to be the first man to touch her there.

"I would never have guessed by how quickly she ran off." Ivar simmered, sinking a few inches deeper into the water. Only Floki could get away with lifting the veil off of Ivar's reality without raising his temper. The pang in his chest was slowly becoming a cold dagger of shame. His pride had refused to entertain the idea that she ran away due to anything but embarrassment. She could not wait to be free of him. He was in pursuit of her maidenhead and she escaped at the first opportunity. His ego surged, pulling him back into the safety of his own dissonance.

"That wasn't my fault. You embarrassed her." He managed, lips hovering just above the murky surface. 

"Ah, of course, it was I who scared her off. I'm sure you have been perfectly kind to her in my absence." Floki shot back, closing the gap between himself and his pupil. Ivar refused to meet Floki's gaze.

"It doesn't matter how I behave. Even when I am kind she treats me like a monster. I have no choice but to be hard on her. She's so stubborn." He whined, rubbing his face with his hands. This frustrated tick had become a regular part of his routine since Saga arrived.

"All women are stubborn, Ivar. You have to work for them and that means thinking about how they feel sometimes, otherwise they end up hating you." Floki was no stranger to the stubborn nature of women. He had been with Helga for longer than he could remember and they had endured many heartaches but in the end, kindness and understanding had always brought him back into her good graces. 

"I am working! I've made my intentions very clear. I walked down a mountain to bring her here - on these useless stumps with those damned painful crutches." Ivar spat, eager to redirect the conversation, to cleanse himself of blame. Floki was undeterred. He knew this trick all too well.

"Why do you think Helga stays with me?" He dangled this bait like a fat worm and Ivar was his gullible trout.

"Because she is just as crazy as you are." That familiar smirk overtook Ivar's features again. 

"Perhaps," Floki shrugged, scratching his chin thoughtfully, "Her eccentricities are different to mine. Complementary, but different."

"Why does it matter?" Ivar groaned, thankful for the change in topic but still annoyed with Floki's yammering. He sensed a lecture coming on.

"You can take a woman's body, Ivar - but to earn her heart, that is true power. Once a woman gives herself to you completely, they can pull such profound secrets from you. Things you didn't know existed. Before Helga, I was incomplete. Unhappy. The Gods brought us together to make my life sweeter. That is why I chose Helga. And that is why she chose me." Floki's eyes seemed far away. Ivar was used to hearing him wax poetic about carpentry, nature and the Gods but had he ever heard him speak so sweetly about a woman? Even Helga? His rusty little heart warmed a bit at the idea but his youthful bravado wouldn't allow him to entertain the feeling.

"There is nothing a woman can teach me that I can't find out myself." An air of longing threatened to choke him and Ivar coughed uncomfortably into his fist. Floki fell into silence. Ivar was relieved. This would be a good time to make his escape and begin the agonizing climb back up the hill. He propped his elbow onto the surrounding stone and heaved himself up.

"Sol and Mani." Floki barked suddenly, yanking the line and drawing Ivar's head back in his direction.

"What?" He laughed - a real and surprising sound.

"Sol from the south, Mani's companion, her right hand cast about the horses Arvak and Alsvid. Sol knew not where she a dwelling had, and Mani knew not what power he possessed." Floki's voice was airy and prophetic, as it often became when he spoke of the old things. Ivar had heard this tale many times. The birth of the sun and the moon - not lovers, but siblings. 

"Yes, I remember the story. If you have something to say, Floki, then just say it. I am tired of this hot spring." The boatbuilder grinned, shushing Ivar with a wave of his scarred hand.

"When the sun and the moon came to consciousness, neither knew their purpose. They were opposites. Where one had weaknesses, the other had strengths. So why, with so much separating them, and no clear objective in place, does Mani chase Sol endlessly through the sky?"

"Because, like you, he is a damn fool." Ivar huffed. He had yet to abandon the pool, upper body still resting lazily on the sun warmed stone.

"Because they need each other, Ivar. Mani and Sol are connected. He does not know why, but they are, so he will run himself to the ends of the Earth to watch over her." Floki was well aware that, despite the mild nature of this story, it was one of Ivar's favorites. He would never admit it now but as a small boy, Ivar was fascinated by the idea of the Moon in his chariot, chasing his soul twin to the ends of the Earth. It was the first time he had ever really considered the power of companionship. The dedication one had for someone they loved and who loved them in return, regardless of intention. On sleepless nights where the pain in his legs was too much, little Ivar would seek out the moon and think about his father, a kinship he wanted so desperately but was certain he could never have. The memory left a sour taste in his mouth. On hearing the story again, Ivars thoughts did not return to his father. They shone brightly on Saga. He was a young man now and the time to bond with Ragnar had come and gone. The hole left by his sudden abandonment would remain. Knowing a woman was far more important now. 

"Yes, but he will never catch up with her." Ivar breathed, and Floki thought he caught a glimpse of lament in the boy's features. He smiled knowingly.

"On the days where the moon eclipses the sun, perhaps he reaches out to touch her hair." It was a poor consolation for the things man can not have.

"What is the point of pursuing something if you can't have all of it?" Helpless as ever, Ivar had walked right into his own conversational trap.

"My point exactly." Floki purred. He suddenly shot up onto his feet, invigorated. "So don't waste your time playing selfish games with this girl. Not every woman wants to go right to bed. Let her know you. Let her want you. Then, perhaps, you won't be in such a hurry to claim her."

"I thought, as long as she was making noise, she wouldn't mind if I..." He couldn't bring himself to finish that thought and Floki chuckled. Ivar finally found the strength to leave the pool, delighting in the crisp late summer breeze against his burning skin. He had been in the water for so long that his limbs had gone pink. He sighed warmly as the sun and breeze worked together to dry him. Floki watched him as he lie stomach up in the grass, hair mussed and cheeks pink. He really was nothing but an overgrown child.

"Oh, Ivar. You really are a bird-brained little fool." Floki yipped, gently shoving Ivar's head with his foot as he passed. Ivar swatted at the encroaching ankle, but Floki was quick and far too used to Ivar's tricks. He hopped skillfully over the sunbathing boy and into his abandoned pants.

"And you are an ugly, feather-headed old bastard."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Floki to the rescue. I've always assumed that, off screen, Floki and Ivar had a very complex and supportive relationship. Ivar never seems to lose his temper around Floki. There have been many situations where he looks up to him in awe, much like a son might look up to his father. If you ever doubt Ivar's inner sweetness, just re-watch the scene where Floki presents him with his war chariot. For additional heartbreak, watch the scene where Floki abandons him for Iceland. Their goodbye is absolutely devastating and lends Ivar's character a sense of vulnerability and softness that is rarely scene in the canon universe.
> 
> I have 2 more chapters for you this week - Saga's conversation with Helga and an epilogue. Thank you for your continued support and comments! It really makes my day seeing that hit counter go up.


	11. Ehwaz - Side 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Helga gives Saga some insight into Ivar's past - and her own future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Seidr - Norse shamanism focused primarily on fate. It's main use was determining the future and working within it's structure to bring about change. 
> 
> 2\. Regarding Helga!
> 
> So, there are some differences between canon Helga and my Helga. I have decided to make Helga a practitioner of Seidr. Non-Canon: Helga enters Floki's life in Season 1 as a travelling healer and they bond through their eccentricities. Floki's guidance and support over the years have sharpened Helga's intuition which led her to begin practicing as a Völva. 
> 
> Also, if you are curious as to why Helga is so dismissive of Ivar's abuse, my justification for her behavior is based on in-series experiences. Helga has been a victim of both neglect and physical abuse due to Floki's mental health issues but she is a compassionate and forgiving woman as well as a loyal Pagan. Due to her experiences with Floki and her dedication to the Gods and their plans, she places little importance on the behaviors of man. She has justified all mortal acts, good and bad, as divine will.

Helga was smiling softly, fingers running carelessly through her long hair. Sunlight and breeze seemed to dance around her, bathing her in an otherworldly glow. Her steps, though graceful, were always precise and she didn't hesitate on the uneven ground. It was as if everything came effortlessly for her. 'Carried in the palm of the Gods' Saga thought. She always found herself feeling envious of people like Helga. People so sure of their place in the world that you could actually see their influence swirling around them.

"I'm sorry to intrude upon your private time with Ivar. Floki is not one for taking hints." Helga cooed, resting her feather-light touch between Saga's shoulder blades. It was not dissimilar to how a mother might soothe a fussy child. That simple touch threatened to tear every truth from Saga's pregnant mind. It begged her to relent and relinquish her burdens, which she did, suddenly and heartily. 

"It's... alright." They were the only words Saga could find and they weren't true. The air seemed to swell with fog and her lungs grew heavy in her chest, quaking her breath. She brought her hands to her mouth in a trembling ball as blinding tears ran down her freckled cheeks, pooling against her knuckles. A painful sob, like a dying beast, escaped her swollen lips, forcing her to curl in on herself. Again and again her sore frame was wracked by painful, breath-stealing sobs. The ghost of Ivar's calloused hands closed around her throat, stealing her breath and bending her into submission. The place between her legs still burned in a confusing display of disgust and desire and she cried until no sound came out.

"You poor thing." Helga's arms encircled her companion, gently dabbing the hot tears from her thick lashes. A stranger to maternal affection, Saga stilled in Helga's arms, neither falling into them nor pulling away. She took notice of the swollen welt on Saga's cheek and the necklace of bruises forming on her throat. Helga's lips pulled into a dour line. The child's misfortune had made itself known to her. 

"I've never... just then... that was the first time anyone has ever..." The sobs continued and Saga had to swallow hard between admissions just to get the words out. Fortunately, Helga did not need words to understand what had happened. 

"I know. It's alright, you didn't do anything wrong." Her hand continued rubbing gentle circles into Saga's back, willing her lungs to take in deep, calming breaths. They stood that way in the sparsely wooded forest for a long time, Saga unleashing a lifetime of tears and Helga helping to ease out her pains. The older woman did not speak again, settling for soft humming noises that slowly lulled her companion into a trance-like silence. Saga felt light-headed. When the last of her tears had fallen, Helga offered her a sweet, toothy smile. 

"I'm sorry. I don't like to cry in front of others." The heels of Saga's palms dug into her swollen eyes. Despite the overwhelming exhaustion, she felt surprisingly good. Her tears had run heavy with pain, regret and anger, not just for Ivar's actions but those of her uncles, his countrymen and the very fates themselves. It was absolutely cathartic.

"Don't be sorry, a woman's first time can be frightening, with or without love." Helga soothed. As if sharing a body, the two began walking slowly in time with one another. The older woman's slender hand was still fixed comfortingly against Saga's upper back. Saga did not like to be touched but the gentle pressure of Helga's flesh on her own did not feel intrusive. It was oddly supportive, as if someone had fixed a pole to her back that was forcing her to stand taller. The new posture afforded her a natural confidence. It warmed her belly and calmed her anxious mind. Thoughts and words became one beneath that merciful touch.

"It didn't go that far." Saga continued, hands still clasped and shaking despite her change in mood. Saying it out loud brought a weak smile to her lips. It didn't go that far. She had been thrashed and groped and forcibly kissed but her body had not been invaded. Ivar's assault had been slow and uncertain and the Gods rewarded her steadfast refusal by sending her a protector. She bowed her head, thanking them silently. She knew most women in such a position were not so lucky.

"Then don't be so sad. You haven't lost anything." Helga added encouragingly, thoughts lingering on the young man they had left behind. She knew Ivar's condition made it difficult for him to interact with people, especially women. He only seemed to delight in the company of a young lady if he could frighten or intimidate them. As his brothers came of age and made a great display of charming and bedding thralls, the youngest son of Ragnar had remained petulant and alone. She often wondered if he was interested in women at all and catching him in the springs with Saga had been a stomach-churning surprise. It would seem that Ivar seduced women in the same way he spoke to them. Forcefully. Although curious about the circumstances that had brought Saga into such an intimate situation against her will, Helga knew better than to ask such a question without warming up to it first.

"So, you've come from Venessla with Earl Þorgier?" It was less of a question than a statement. Everyone in Kattegat knew about Ragnar's unusual guest and his beautiful daughter. Few of them took notice of Saga. Most referred to her as the 'house slave' the Earl had brought with him. Now that she had lain eyes on her, Helga doubted this sensitive girl was a slave. It was almost unheard of that a slave girl of fifteen would still be so terrified of any man.

"Yes, he's here for raiding season. He's also hoping to marry my cousin off to a son of Ragnar." Saga's voice dripped with annoyance at that. Her eyes went wide, surprised by her own tone of voice. She avoided Helga's gaze, mouth bobbing in search of a way to make herself seem pleased by the events. Although Helga was very comforting to be with, she didn't know this woman well enough to be so honest. As if sensing her company's regret, Helga burst into a placating laugh.

"It wouldn't be the first time." She added, face scrunching to match Saga's annoyance. She too was put off by the whole affair. When one actually thought about it, presenting your daughter to the King wasn't so different from arranged marriage. The offended Helga's free-spirited sensibilities. "Who does your cousin favor?"

"Ubbe." Wasn't it obvious? Saga assumed most young girls presented to the King and Queen had their eyes on the eldest. He was handsome, gentle and next in line to receive his father's kingdom. Any woman with an ambitious father would have to be mad to openly pursue anyone else.

"Oh, Ubbe is very kind - and responsible, too." Helga nodded, well aware of Ubbe's temperament. She had to wonder, then, how did Ivar and Saga suddenly grow so close if she was not the Earl's offering? Such things were usually frowned upon.

"...and it would seem that you have chosen Ivar." Helga was treading lightly and Saga replied in kind.

"I wouldn't say that - it's more like he has chosen me." The waifish girl's expression hardened at the mere mention of his name. Now that the threat of imminent danger was removed, her true feelings regarding the terrible prince were rushing back to the forefront. It was easy to be angry at him when he wasn't around. 

"Ivar has never been shy about taking what he wants." Helga added, hand finally receding from Saga's back to re-link arms. Saga smiled at the friendly gesture.

"Has he always been so aggressive?" Saga was certain, if anyone could pick up on Ivar's secrets, it would be this unusual woman whose mere presence threatened to pick even her apart with a single gaze.

"Oh, yes. There is a lot of fire in him." Helga laughed, though her expression was more serious now than it had been when they began. Saga's intuition kicked in. She was certain by the way Ivar had responded to the arrival of this woman and her husband that they knew each other too well for there to be many secrets between them. Helga was holding something back. Protecting him. 

"And a lot of thunder, too." Saga tried pressing the issue, tone falling just short of accusatory. Helga stopped suddenly, offering a full view of her face to the girl in a moment of sincerity. 

"I know he has been unkind to you. I am sorry for that." Even a blind man would notice the impact Ivar had on Saga. She dropped her head in shame. It wasn't in her nature to request sympathy from others, especially strangers, but this situation was entirely new to her. Saga craved both comfort and independence, abandonment and acceptance. How could she express that yes, he had been unkind, but a part of her wanted him to be gentle more than it wanted him gone.

"You can be honest with me, we are all well aware of Ivar's tempers. He is young but he thinks he knows everything. He doesn't respond well to 'no'." Helga's opinion was true to Ivar's character. Saga took this as a sign to continue but quickly forgot herself again.

"Is there anything he does respond well to?" Saga snapped before covering her mouth in surprise. She had so little control over her emotions and now that same carelessness was slipping into her lips. Helga did not seem incensed. In fact, she looked amused. 

"He likes being complimented, but don't we all?" Helga offered, pulling Saga gently as her feet resumed their trek toward town. "I know he can be cruel but he really is a sensitive boy."

"He gives me no reason to compliment him. I am afraid of him." Saga lamented. He insisted on pursuing her but never gave her a reason to be glad in his company. She feared she would be doomed to receive this treatment day after day until he left for England.

"I don't think anyone has ever truly taken an interest in him. Because of that, he doesn't really know how to take an interest in others." Helga spoke of him so gently, so knowingly. It was like listening to a mother trying not to bad mouth her own misbehaving child. She was either a very naive woman or a very admirable one. Based on their short time together, Saga assumed the latter.

"You really care for him, don't you?" Saga was genuinely surprised by that. Ivar was overwhelming. How could anyone care for someone like Ivar, especially when they weren't being forced into it? Helga gave Saga a pitying look but it didn't seem like it was meant for her.

"I treated him often when he was child. You know... his legs." Finally, something about Ivar that Saga had actually been curious about. 

"So his legs have always been like this?" By the build of his upper body and his ease of movement it was easy to see that Ivar had been crippled for quite some time but she hadn't expected he could have been born that way. The idea of him trying to move himself about as a little boy actually made Saga feel badly for him.

"He came out of the womb with twisted legs and they have pained him since that day. If you went near the longhouse, you would hear him crying at all hours. Nothing could comfort him and no one wanted to be with him, except for his mother." Helga spoke slowly, her voice distant. Saga bit her lip thoughtfully. So Helga really did care about Ivar and she had good reason to. She had been witness to his misfortune since the day he was born. "I think he built a shell to survive the loneliness."

"I didn't know." Saga breathed, touching her hand to her heart. It was much easier to humanize Ivar when one thought of him as the helpless infant he had once been. Furthermore, they both had the same problem. They had constructed problematic defenses against the world and it's inhabitants. Where he lashed out, Saga sunk in. As if reading her thoughts, Helga patted Saga's arm reassuringly.

"Don't be sad. Everyone finds a way to survive in the world, this is simply his way. Besides, he detests pity and would never admit such a weakness - especially not to a young woman he fancies." Saga let out a single, mocking 'Ha!' and this time she did not show any shame.

"He doesn't behave like he fancies me. Sure, he tries to... you know." Saga was suddenly reminded of the feast - how Hvitserk's eyes roamed over her, hungry for more than just meat and ale. That night had ended poorly for her thanks to Ivar's cruel teasing. Yes, her own ignorance in regards to drinking was partially to blame, but it was much easier to blame it all on the bratty little prince who was intent on making her life even more miserable. "Just because a man tries to bed you doesn't mean he likes you. Even I know that."

"Men are taught to take what they want without having to explain themselves. For lack of a better term, they think with their second head." They both laughed wryly at that. "Ivar doesn't know how to pursue a woman. He's never been very close to anyone but his mother - and Floki, of course. I'm not telling you to fall in love with him... but if anyone is deserving of a little patience, it is someone like Ivar"

"...but he is terrible." Saga groaned, the heavy feeling in her chest threatening to pull her down again. Helga sighed in partial defeat. How could she argue the merits of a boy to a girl who had just nearly been overtaken by him? All she could do was agree.

"He can be."

"He makes all sorts of demands and if I don't give him what he wants -" Saga stopped herself, afraid of the tears that might spill should she bring to light the details his assault.

"Sometimes a man doesn't know what to make of his own feelings so he acts in a way that is comfortable. Ivar is comfortable when he is angry. It makes him feel capable. Don't let him frighten you. I know it sounds odd, but I bet you frighten him, too." Saga had a difficult time believing she made Ivar feel anything other than angry. Her inner voice mocked her instantly. Of course he felt something for her other than anger. Her resistance may have angered him but her body only excited him. Part of her liked knowing that he wanted her. Saga shook the uncomfortable thought from her head, focusing again on the way he had handled her. 

"You think he lashes out at me because he's afraid?" She had never entertained the thought that anger could come from a place of fear but it made perfect sense. Just like a cornered wolf barks and snarls, a human outside of his element fights or flees. Ivar was the type to fight.

"I think he's only a boy." Helga concluded. Despite her companion's wisdom, Saga felt at a disadvantage. Helga had a reason to protect Ivar's reputation and Saga was intent on finding out why.

"You have so much compassion for him." Helga nodded, that delightful smile returning to her face.

"We've spent a lot of time with him. Floki was his teacher, you know. When Ragnar disappeared, Floki took care of him. Perhaps we protected him too much." Helga paused for a moment and Saga could have sworn she saw a darkness cloud her eyes, but it was gone as soon as it came. "After we lost our daughter, Ivar became our everything."

Saga's breath stuck in her throat as her mind made sense of everything. Helga's maternal air, the way she and Floki seemed to have an instant effect on Ivar's behavior, the death of their daughter... Ivar was practically their own. Ragnar had abandoned his sons and the most vulnerable of them had found a place with Helga and Floki. Having lost their own child, they happily accepted responsibility over him. The youngest. The only one who needed them.

"I'm sorry." 

"Don't be." Helga chirped, her voice surprisingly light. "Everything happens for a reason."

"You are so resilient, Helga."

"I wasn't always this way. It took years to recover after Angrboda's death." Saga tested the name in her mind. It was strong and unique - just like her mother. "If only it were as simple to heal the mind as it was to heal the body."

Now that caught Saga's attention.

"Can you really heal a sick mind?" Saga had often wondered about the state of her own mind following those intense moments of panic. Sometimes the simplest of thoughts sent her into a terrified frenzy. Her uncle referred to it as hysteria but, for Saga, it felt like someone else were fighting for control of her body and the only way to stay grounded was to scream the foreign body out. These coping mechanisms had brought her nothing but trouble. They earned her lashings from her uncle, curious stares and gossip from the citizens of Venessla and even the occasional teasing from her cousin. She wanted to be more like Helga who, despite the pain and uncertainty of life, did not bend to it. In fact, she seemed to embrace it.

"Time, patience... sometimes the Seidr can find answers where physical healing fails." The Seidr? Saga had heard that term before. It was a word that was only spoke in low tones in Þorgier's court. Helga's mysterious nature was so obvious now. Seidr was Witchcraft and that made Helga a witch. Saga's chest clenched with excitement. Þorgier would never allow such a woman in his presence, let alone her's. That dangerous sense of rebellion was itching it's way over her skin yet again.

"You... you practice Seidr?" Helga smirked gently.

"I've always had a knack for healing - but when I met Floki, it was as if all of the locks between the Gods and I were opened." Saga's eyes sparkled with wonder. She was so enthralled by this new information that she hardly noticed when they broke the barrier of the forest. Her tent was within sight now, only a few dozen steps from where they stood. Helga had made Saga feel safe without even trying. Did they really have to part so soon? She wanted to hear more about this Seidr. Perhaps she could find out why it had been forbidden in Venessla. Helga's hands came to rest over her own, the warmth relaxing her instantly.

"Come to our home. I will throw the bones for you. If there is something you wish to know, we can try to find the answer together." 

"Now?" Saga breathed, mind bubbling over with curiosity. It was late and she was expected home soon but there were so many things she wanted to know. Helga laughed, clearly pleased by her eager attitude.

"When you can." She offered, giving Saga's hands a little squeeze.

"Where do I find you?" Saga whispered, as if someone in the camp might overhear her.

"Just ask Ivar - I'm sure he would be glad to bring you to us." Helga released Saga's hands and turned back towards the forest. Saga watched her lithe form as it floated easily into the treeline, away from the hot springs and deeper yet into the woods. Ask Ivar? He said he would come for her tomorrow and she would have to accept him if she wished to see Helga. After all she had admitted, Helga still insisted she stay close to him - but to whose benefit? Helga paused, sensing Saga's hesitance, and turned to offer her one last piece of advice.

"Do not be afraid. Nothing can happen that hasn't already been determined by the Gods. You are safe with them - so you will be safe with him." She raised her hand in a farewell gesture and left Saga alone with her thoughts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think of Helga's advice? Has she been enabling Ivar all these years by dismissing his behavior or is he really following the Gods' plans?
> 
> How do you think/hope Saga and Ivar will continue from here? I'd love to hear your theories!
> 
> Thank you for reading and for sharing your comments! You guys are amazing.


	12. Inguz

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivar comes to collect Saga at Helga's request - with unexpectedly pleasant results.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The rune Inguz, literally translated as "seed", is the rune of the God Ing (Frey). Inguz is an isolating rune but it also fosters internal growth. Inguz is representative of the seeds planted in the sub-conscious mind for later cultivation.

Ivar slipped soundlessly past the opening on Saga's tent. 

Ubbe had collected Torhild before breakfast and he knew Saga would be alone. He hadn't planned on sneaking into her private quarters, especially after Floki's lecture on empathizing with the poor girl, but there was no one around to stop him and he took that as a welcome sign to enter. Besides, Helga had insisted he bring the timid girl to her for whatever reason so trespassing was a necessity. His eyes scanned the room with boyish curiosity and he was relieved to find that there was indeed only one occupied palette. It was clear by the sparse furs and position on the floor that this bundle belonged to Saga.

Dragging himself in his practiced way, Ivar was careful not to disturb the various gowns, belts and trinkets that Torhild had left in her wake. It must have been Saga's responsibility to tidy the tent, further proof that she had slept through breakfast. He didn't bother to wonder why Earl Torgier would allow Saga to sleep when there were chores to be done and impressions to be made. The raiding party would sail in just under a month and the commanders were too busy planning and supplying ships to worry about what their companions might be up to. He lifted himself just enough to catch a glimpse of her sleeping face. Her short, dark hair covered her eyes, hiding all but her delicate nose and pink lips. They were parted ever so as she breathed steadily between them. 

Ivar lowered himself to his stomach, resting his chin on the top of his forearm while his other hand toyed cautiously with Saga's bedding. He gripped the thin black skin and, though it looked threadbare from a distance, he found it surprisingly warm and soft. He slipped his hand thoughtlessly beneath the fur's blunt edge. At first he thought he might startle her awake by grasping her ankle but as he inched his fingers closer to her sleeping form he couldn't help but take advantage of the situation. He halted his approach, withdrawing his hand to slowly peel the thin animal skin from Saga's legs. She groaned and he cursed himself, certain she would wake up. To his delight, she re-positioned herself onto her side and fell once more into a deep sleep. She must have been exhausted from the previous day's activities. 

Ivar's teeth pressed gently against his tongue, thoughts of her wet, naked body still fresh in his mind. His stomach did a delightfully nauseating flip, the pressure of it bringing his fingers to life. His palm lingered just over Saga's calf, so close to her skin that he could feel the heat radiating from her. Her nightgown had shifted in the night and tucked itself tightly between her inner thighs, exposing the delicate curve of her bottom. His hand shook and he sucked in a cooling breath. Why was she suddenly making him so nervous? He had no problem touching her when she was retreating fearfully or fighting desperately against him. Floki's words echoed in his ears. 'Don't waste your time playing selfish games with this girl.'

Ivar stifled an affronted snort. True, this was selfish. What did Saga have to gain from his leering, especially when she slept? He entertained for the first time that he might actually be taking advantage of her vulnerability but he saw no reason for that to bother him. A handful was certainly selfish but maybe a little touch would be alright. He ran his thumb delicately over the rounded side of her outer thigh. She did not move. His mouth hung open approvingly as he finally released his breath. So peaceful, he marveled. 

'Let her want you.' Again Floki's voice interrupted his childish fantasies. The advice had become a nuisance. Where the Ivar of yesterday had considered being patient, today's would entertain no such ideas. Ivar's desires won out in the end, like they often did and probably always would. He may have pulled his hand back but it was not to retreat from Saga's sleeping form. He pulled himself alongside her palette, leaving her legs exposed to the dry summer air, and came to rest on his side. His hand came up to support his head as his greedy eyes ate their fill of Saga's gentle features. She did not look so afraid when she slept. Save for the slightest traces of ruddiness on her scratched lips, she looked wholly innocent. Ivar smiled proudly. It was he who had marked those lips so roughly with his own.

'Floki said to be kind to her. A kiss is kind, isn't it?' He needed very little convincing. Ivar brought his face close to Saga's, pausing momentarily to take in her features at this new and exciting angle. He did not have the time to appreciate this view the previous day. Everything had happened so quickly. Now, he would savor her. Without the conflicting mineral scent of the hot spring clouding his nose, Ivar inhaled the warm, unspoiled scent of her. Wood smoke and nettle. Comforting and clean. Gently, and with nervous excitement tightening his muscles, he let his lips brush delicately against hers. It was not for lack of wanting to drive through her like a bull but for fear of waking her up that encouraged Ivar to be soft. It was one thing to force a kiss upon her as she stilled fearfully in his grasp, but to grace her lips in a moment of pure relaxation was something else entirely. Every inch of his body seemed to relax as he remained chaste against her lips. They were plumper than he had thought - softer, too. His eyes closed and hers flickered open.

The smell of leather and salt may have pulled her from her dreaming but Saga didn't truly come to life until something warm and soft pressed against her lips. The touch was so light and sweet that she considered for a moment she might still be dreaming. The tent was dark, the flap having been pulled shut, and her bleary vision fought against the shadows to identify the intruder. She was surprised to see Ivar mere inches from her face but there was no time to be fearful of his intentions. She was instantly hit by the previous afternoon's pains. Furthermore, her legs still thrummed from Torgier's lashes. The springs had brought her no relief and now Ivar was in her tent with his lips pressed over her own. A panic trembled up her spine and down through her fingertips, forcing her hand up to press him away. Ivar's eyes shot open in response but he did not grow angry, nor did he scramble away in feigned innocence. 

"Good morning - who gave you permission to sleep in?" Ivar was unashamed. She rolled painfully away from him and sat up on her aching backside, lifting the furs over her chin like a shield.

"You can't be in here." She whispered, face burning. It was difficult to place exactly what she was feeling only seconds after being woken in such an unusual and intimate fashion, but it was not fear or embarrassment. She hadn't scolded him for kissing her and Ivar congratulated himself on his restraint. 

"I told you I would come for you today." He looked up at her with half-lidded eyes, not bothering to sit up from his recumbent position beside her bedroll. His expression was carefree and his hand was drumming casually against the earth. Saga hated that. He was always so self-assured, even after doing something uncouth. What sort of Prince snuck into a lady's room to touch her while she slept? What sort of Prince did anything that Ivar had done in the past few days alone? 

"What if my uncle had seen you?" She chastised, uncharacteristically brave. Saga didn't realize it, but she was capable of being just as unpredictable as he was. Ivar's brows quirked, clearly intrigued by her change in mood. He had already readied himself for her anxious retreat and exclamations of fear. He was not expecting her to greet him so aggressively. While he appreciated her obedience, the moments where he was receptive to her authenticity had allowed her to leave a very good impression on him. He liked a girl with a little fighting spirit, so long as he approved of the subject matter. He would not satisfy her with an answer. Instead, Ivar sat up and allowed his eyes to drop to her bare legs in mock surprise. Saga's sight followed his own and pulled her nightgown down to her shins, finally allowed herself to feel embarrassed. Ivar broke into a fit of laughter and Saga glared into him knowingly.

"Get up. Helga and Floki are expecting us."

\-------

Ivar was surprisingly easy to shoo away. He waited impatiently outside of Saga's tent, elbows propping him up in the warm grass, the sun sharpening his smug expression. Saga dressed quickly, fearful that his eyes might somehow still be drinking her in from beyond the tent. She splashed her face with cool water but it did nothing to soothe the burning in her cheeks. How many times in the past few days had Ivar made her feel ashamed? She counted three at the feast alone before a lump formed in her throat, urging her to move on with her morning routine before she was reduced to a mass of frustrated tears. When Saga did finally emerge from her blackened tent, face pained and exhausted, she found it difficult to make eye contact with Ivar. Even more difficult than usual. He had woken her with a kiss that was so gentle she nearly keened in her sleep but she had learned quickly not to allow Ivar's rapid change in moods to sway her. She fumbled with her waist belt, the moments of silence between them feeling like a terrible eternity. Fortunately, Ivar was eager to interrogate her. 

"Why did you run off so suddenly yesterday?" Saga swayed on her morning weary legs, quite unsure of what to say. Did she really have to explain how his handling of her most intimate areas wasn't exactly appreciated? 'Don't let him frighten you.' She would put Helga's advice into practice for as long as she could manage.

"I was tired..." Saga meandered toward the treeline, not knowing where Helga lived but also not caring. She wanted to go to her as quickly as possible. The Ivar who was quiet and well controlled was preferred to this bold one, violent or not. Ivar dragged behind, glowering at her ankles. Saga was grateful that he didn't bring his crutches with him today. He wouldn't grow irritated or tired from them and take it out on her. 

"Liar. You were embarrassed." Ivar laughed, the harsh sound of it whipping her around to face him. Ivar stopped abruptly, jaw already hung open to protest should she attempt to stomp back towards her tent.

"Of course I was embarrassed!" Ivar's brows tilted downward, jaw setting back into a relaxed though equally severe line. She was shouting at him. He hadn't expected that. His fists balled in reflex but he was all too aware that most of his intimidation had been left behind with those uncomfortable, awkward crutches. He had lost the high ground, both literally and figuratively, and would have to settle for his second most used tactic. Misdirection.

"Why does Helga want to see you so badly, anyway?" He continued ahead of her now, as he rightfully should have, keeping his disinterested eyes on the forest ahead. Saga, still trembling from the strength of her sudden outburst, set her hands over her racing heart. It really did take a lot out of her to be so openly expressive and Ivar's mistreatment roused the impulse within her like no other. She resumed her leisurely pace though her aura was anything but relaxed and the question he posed was only drawing blanks.

"I'm not really sure. She said she wanted to throw bones for me." It sounded awkward coming off of Saga's tongue and she knew it. She had no idea what it meant to throw bones or what exactly the purpose of such a thing was. She assumed it had everything to do with Helga's Seidr but how could she benefit from such a thing and why did Helga offer to do so in the first place? She glanced uncomfortably at the back of Ivar's head. If he was at all interested in the affair, he didn't show it.

"What else did she say?" Of course, Ivar's true intentions weren't to find out why Helga was so interested in Saga but what had been said between them. Helga knew more about him than most people and wasn't afraid to say exactly what was on her mind. He knew the woman cared for him like a second mother but he also knew she was fond of strange, fragile people. It was in Ivar's experience that most people spoke poorly of him and he feared what might happen should she warm too quickly to Saga. 

"She said a lot of things." Saga countered in a flat tone, trying to match his indifference.

"Anything about me?" Ivar's voice raised an insecure octave and Saga's brows raised in silent surprise. It wasn't like Ivar to ask so many leading questions. Helga's guiding voice echoed yesterday's astute observation. 'I think he's only a boy...' Sensing she had suddenly gained the upper hand in the conversation, Saga stood her ground.

"Some." There was a long silence between them as they crossed into the forest and Saga's eyes danced easily over the array of wild grasses and splintered logs that littered their path. Ivar's body rose and dipped expertly over every obstacle and she couldn't help but be impressed by his strength. Thoughts of the angled muscles of his biceps and upper back cut her breath in two and she dipped her head for fear of the expression that might follow. Being in Ivar's company was difficult for many confusing reasons. She was almost thankful when, after several minutes of nothing, Ivar spoke up.

"I know what everyone says about me." He began, voice dripping with a familiar venom and somewhat breathless from the pace he had set for them. "I know I'm not easy to be around. But I have to be this way." 

"Violent?" Saga replied thickly, skimming over his poor attempt at an apology. This time, her abrupt expression was not followed by a flinch or a bitten lip. She was speaking effortlessly, an unusual sense of control taking over now that Ivar was showing vulnerability.

"No, strong-willed." Ivar countered, adding particular emphasis to the 'no'. Of course Ivar would never consider that he had been violent with her. Aggressive, but not necessarily violent. 

"Having a strong will and having a strong temper are two entirely different things." Saga surprised herself with her newfound confidence. The familiar mixture of fear and apprehension that usually permeated their forced visitation was quickly receding into something more honest, playful even. 

"Yet they compliment one another so well." Ivar replied, matching her gentle antagonism. Saga let out a soft yet mocking 'ha'. Perhaps Helga had cast a spell on her. Or perhaps Ivar was more interested in learning information than taking it. Regardless of the reasoning, Saga was raising the shroud of fear that usually separated them and Ivar was controlling his temper. Unbeknownst to one another, Ivar taking the lead and Saga trailing behind, the two shared a satisfied smile. 

"You are in good spirits today." She continued, interest returning to their placid surroundings. The trees were growing closer together now and the fragrant smell of fertile soil was making her mouth water in an unusual yet satisfying way. 

"What do you mean?" Ivar barked, finally tossing a backwards glance at his company. Saga's smile dropped, still not totally comfortable with his eyes upon her. She thought for a moment, finding the appropriate words to praise him without sounding matronly.

"I don't know - you're softer, I suppose." She offered, testing his reponse. He didn't bristle and his pace continued. "Kinder."

"Don't be stupid." He groaned. So, Ivar did not like being called kind. "You're the one whose always picking fights with me. I am not difficult to please. Just do as I say and I won't have any reason to be unkind."

Saga flinched a bit at the sudden return of his annoyed tone but, over the next hundred or so feet, she came to understand his meaning. Ivar was so terrible at interacting with others that he saw her resistance as an invitation to an argument. Patience and compassion might be the key to getting along with him after all.

"Perhaps, if you asked my permission for the things you want, I wouldn't be so cold to you." Saga closed the distance between them, feet pattering gently at Ivar's shoulder. She wanted to show him that she wasn't afraid of him. She didn't need to walk behind. They could go side by side, like friends. His eyes glanced wearily up at her but he made no mention of her sudden approach. It was surprisingly difficult to keep up with him, his practiced movements over his native land showing clear prowess beside her careful steps.

"I've always taken what I want without any complaints." Ivar slowed his pace just slightly. He braced himself for her to do something stupid, like kick dirt in his direction or run blindly ahead of him, but she did neither. His face scrunched up in suspicion. 

"You are a prince, who would dare complain?" Ivar nodded gruffly. He was a prince and nobody would dare complain. 

"Only those with a death wish." Saga wondered then if he had ever really hurt someone. He was too young for battle and his legs were clearly an impediment. Yes, his reputation as a skilled bowman and swordsmen had made themselves known to her since she had arrived but how could a man kill another man without the use of his legs? It only took the memory of his wild eyes and startling grip on her throat to silence those thoughts. Hadn't he already proven he was far more dangerous than he looked? 

"You seem very used to taking what you want, even if it doesn't yield to you." Saga's hand rested cautiously over her throat. It felt tender beneath her fingers and she was sure it bore small purple marks where his fingers had clenched. The act did not go unnoticed by Ivar but he showed no remorse. In fact, he may have held himself a little taller if it weren't for the limitations of crawling.

"Because I am." He suddenly remembered taking Saga's apple at the previous morning's breakfast and a warm, silly feeling took hold. He had made himself pliable to her. Saga, not at all aware of the sentimental feeling filling her companion, continued her subtle attempt to guide him.

"If you only own things because you've taken them by force, then they aren't really yours to keep." Ivar stilled, pushing himself onto his hip to regard her fully. He was not at all fond of her choice of words, the sudden seriousness of her tone reminding him of their previous encounters. That coldness had crept back into her and it was enough to make the brittle strings binding his tempers snap.

"Don't lecture me!" Saga's eyes dropped to his, mostly out of surprise, and she found that familiar look burned into his features. The hard-jawed, petulant look that a spoiled child might reserve for an older sibling on their birthday. For someone who didn't like to be treated like a child, Ivar sure knew how to act like one. Saga's own brows furrowed in return, but her anger was much more difficult to tempt. What she felt was closer to frustration. He wasn't so frightening without the height that his crutches had afforded him. His eyes danced back and forth between her own, searching for the meaning of her unbroken stare, before he seemed to remember himself. Then, he remembered Floki.

'Let her know you.' It was humiliating in a way and completely out of character but Ivar did not have the energy nor the positioning to exert his will upon Saga now. Thrashing her into submission had been easy and thrilling but stealing a kiss that wasn't tight lipped had awoken a new type of desire in him. He didn't have to force himself upon her when she was calm. He hated to admit it but unless he was intent on driving her away, he would have to deny his impulses - until she gave him no other choice, of course. He cursed Floki silently and opted for the less traveled path.

"I'm a cripple with three older brothers. Nothing can be mine unless I take it at once and hold onto it as tightly as I can." The admission seemed to shock the both of them. Ivar continued his still and silent contemplation while Saga traced the many strings both Ivar and Helga had weaved before her. It was a very stupid way to go about interacting with others but everything Helga said was matching up exactly with Ivar's own admissions. He wasn't a good communicator so communication made him feel uncomfortable. He was comfortable in his anger because it gave him control over others, so anger came easily to him. It saved him from having to admit he was weak. He held on aggressively to things for fear that they would be stolen away by someone else. Someone more capable. He was exhausting and immature and so afraid of being seen as less than. Saga couldn't help but smile at her understanding. The compassion Helga had spoken of was taking hold, truly and naturally.

"We don't really know anything about one other, do we?" Saga's voice was soft and affectionate and Ivar stiffened at the sound of it. His first instinct was that she was mocking him, but he knew her well enough already to know she wasn't capable of tricking him so easily. The way she lowered herself to her knees beside him showed her true intentions. Regardless, he couldn't bring his eyes to meet hers. Unsure of how to react, he rested his back against the nearest tree in an attempt to appear at ease.

"You want to know about me?" His tone was sarcastic but not enough to hide his surprised optimism. His arms came to rest over his chest. Now he was the one being protective.

"I wouldn't ask otherwise." Saga continued, mirroring his gesture. She was much more comfortable with her arms around herself anyway. Ivar chewed his lip uncomfortably, unable to drop his stern expression. He was annoyed with her. Why did he have to tell her anything? Why did he have to be honest with her at all? Why couldn't she just see him as the Prince he was and bend to him? It was equal parts infuriating and admirable. Something within her refused to relent. He hoped it was attraction but his inner voice assured him it was fear. 

'Let her want you.' Floki hummed in his memory. It was a dual challenge which he gladly accepted, scouring his mind for defining traits and listing them as quickly as they came.

"I am fearless. I am a great fighter. I am far more clever than my brothers. And I know how to get what I want..." Ivar was no stranger to bragging but he had never bragged to someone who had willingly requested it. He felt slightly embarrassed which, in turn, became irritation. "What does it matter?"

"If you are going to keep my company, we should know more about one another." Saga stated plainly. She rested her hands against the cool grass and the soft earth beneath, delighted at her own steadfastness. Ivar only tightened his grip around either forearm. 

"I know plenty about you." It was a blatant lie. All Ivar knew about Saga was the ways in which she appealed to him. Her appearance, her scent, the taste of her skin and the myriad of other shallow reasons he sought her out.

"You're stubborn - yet you are weak." Ivar said it without thinking and it wasn't at all wrong. She had an irritating way of alternating between weak-willed and bold. He could tell by the dejected look upon her face and the way she dropped her gaze to the ground that he had made a mistake. Instinctively fearful of losing whatever it was that she was offering him at the moment, he wracked his brain for something - anything pleasant to say. He would not be so easily bested by the disembodied voice of Floki in his head.

"...but you are loyal to your family." He managed. Saga peered up at him again, hurt still plain upon her features. Ivar breathed a sigh of relief, surprised by his own admission. In fact, he realized that her loyalty was something he really admired about her. He craved both respect and loyalty and Saga seemed to produce an endless supply of both. Her uncle deserved neither and her cousin was terribly boring yet she made herself useful and available to them. He could tell by the way her uncle's subtle glances willed her to act that she longed to please him. Ivar wanted to move her like that. When a long moment had passed in silence, Saga finally let out an hesitant breath.

"I like nature and exploring new things." Ivar flinched slightly. Should he have asked her the same questions? He really was dreadful at keeping a sensible conversation going. Normally he would settle for berating and intimidating his conversational partners into silence. Like everything else in his life, talking had become a battle to be won, and partners were simply foes to be silenced. Saga was not this way. When unafraid, her voice was full of curiosity. She had nothing to be gained but truth. 

"You are an adventurer." His voice lilted in clear approval. He liked that about her, too. All Northmen should be interested in adventure.

"I could be. I admire adventurous people." Saga chirped. He couldn't help but notice how pleased she was by his approval and his ego allowed him to believe it was all for him. In actuality, Saga was pleased by any approval. Her very survival relied on gaining her uncles approval and this unfortunate fact had seeped into every other facet of her life. Yet another reason why she couldn't just dismiss Ivar as toxic. An integral part of her needed his approval - and every part of him needed to be pleased.

"Well, my father is a great adventurer and I will be even greater than he." Ivar cooed confidently. Even while approving of her, he found a way to compliment himself and his family in turn. Saga shook her head in good humor.

"You're complicated... but there are moments where I think I'd like to know you, Ivar." He was frustrating and predictably unpredictable and exactly how Helga had described him. Comforted by this, Saga's hand fluttered over Ivar's, giving it a gentle pat. Ivar broke into an unexpected grin at the compliment and even more so at the brief contact. When he smiled so genuinely like that, Saga found it impossible not to like him just a little - then she felt his hand grip hers roughly in an attempt to tug her towards him. Just like that, the veil of intimacy was lifted. He gave in to his desire for closeness, like he always did, and leaned in just slightly. Despite the forest and it's shade, his eyes were bright. 

"We should keep going." Saga breathed, quickly lifting herself onto her aching legs. Ivar refused to relent, hand still firm upon her own. She made a weak fist as if anticipating his bruising grip but was pleasantly surprised to find that his touch remained light. He brushed his thumb over her knuckles appreciatively then released it with surprisingly little fight. Saga couldn't help but stare as Ivar's own hand retreated, the look on his face troubled yet thoughtful. He lowered himself back onto his forearms and continued deeper into the woods. This time, he offered her no rapacious comments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I said I had another Epilogue planned for this week, but a sudden change of plans encouraged me to write something cute and necessary - the Epilogue will follow my next Chapter, wherein Helga realizes that Saga might be *spoilers spoilers spoilers*. 
> 
> That being said, I have an announcement to make! I will be taking a short break from my aggressive posting schedule for a month long vacation. I will attempt to post once weekly while I am abroad but, unfortunately, I can't make any promises as I will have less privacy and less internet access. Please be patient with me. I'm not abandoning this story and I'll return with lots of inspiration!
> 
> Now, back to the Chapter. I hope Ivar and Saga interacted in a way that felt natural after the previous day's events. It may seem a little too convenient for some, but so is Stockholm syndrome. ;)
> 
> As always, comment below if you like. I love responding to you guys and I really appreciate your continued support!


	13. Update: June 2019

I’m sorry for the unreasonable delay’ It’s been a loooong break but after several life-altering and totally unexpected changes (moving to a different country, ending my marriage, a new career...) I’m happy to announce that I will once again be able to continue this story! Thank you all for your patience and continued support. New chapters arrive shortly.


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